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The Complete Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson
THE COMPLETE PROSE WORKS
OF
RALPH WALDO EMERSON,
Photo hyj
RALPH WALDO
EMKRSON
Emerson's Erose Woyks\
THE
COMPLETE PROSE WORKS
OF
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
V/mi A CEITICAL LMRODUCTIOM.
LONDONt
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED,
WARWICK HOUSE, SALISBURY SQUARE, E.C.
introduction.
— —
” I CAN say to you what I cannot first say to myself.*' Thus Emerson
aptly illustrates his position and the source of his influence. He
a moral and intellectual preacher tor a free platform. His soul, imbi-
bing the lessons of the ages, in communion with the springs of Nature,
fervently sympathising with the aspirations of his fellow men, spoke
with electric effect to his hearers as they hung on his utterances. Thio
trammels of ecclesiastical systems, the crystallisations of formal creeds,
the limitations of outward observances, of time honoured expressions
he threw off, and sought truths in which all men can unite. It was
not because he lacked firm convictions, or thought one sect or party
as good as another, but because he felt that truth was beyond party
or church, that he spoke in favour of unity of heart among men of all
religions. The utter foe of slavery, white and black, the simplifier ^
religious ideas, the awakener and quickener of intellectual and moral
life among young men, the idealist in a world continually dragged
down by the material, Emerson was an inspiring seer of the highest
value to his time and country. His legacy to the world is not a system,
not a creed, not an observance, but a stimulus, an impulse to a perfect
life. *
Ralph Waldo Emerson, descended from the founder of Concord,
Massachusetts, through generations of scholars and preachers, was
born at Boston, May 25, 1803. His father dying when he was but
eight, he was brought up by bis mother and an accomplished aunt,
and educated first at the Boston Latin School, then at Harvard Uni-
versity. After a distinguished college career, he, in 1829, became pastor
of a large Unitarian church in Boston, in which he obtained fame as
a preacher of strikingly thoughtful sermons, which charmed beyond
Channing’s. But feeling that he could not continue to administer the
sacrament, he resigned his pastorate in 1832, and went on tour in
Europe, making Carlyle's acquaintance. As early as 1831 he opened
his church to anti-slavery agitators, and continued an ardent emanci-
pator ; in 1859 hailing John Brown as “ the saint, whose mar^rdom
will make the gallows glorious like the Cross.**
Iv Introduction.
Having lost his first wife, Emerson married again .n 1S35, went
to live at Concord, where his residence became a famous resort. In
1835, an address commemorative of the settlement of Concord in 1635,
and two courses of lectures at Boston on biography and literature,
lifted him into the front rank of public teachers in America. In 1836,
he gave lectures on the Nature and Ends of History, discussing all
institutions from the transcendental standpoint, and appearing to teach
the divinity of man. A so-called Transcendental Club, including Emer-
son and Margaret Fuller, met at Channing^s house. In 1837 and 1838
Emerson gave two addresses at Harvard, which started a powerful
reaction both against Puritanism and cold, formal Unitarianism, and
led to the condemnation of his views by the Theological Faculty. It
also roused Theodore Parker to activity, and produced numerous clubs
and societies for carrying out transcendental principles in a simple, nat-
ural life ; the foremost of these being Brook Farm, of which Hawthorne
and Margaret Fuller were chief adherents. For the rest of his life he
stood as the strongest individual force in American thought. His chief
works are collections of essays representing his lectures, but losing
much of the effect ot his spoken words. He died on April 27, 1882.
In his essay on Histor3% Emerson boldly states one of his principal
themes — the solidarity of mankind and his freernanship among his
possessions. All mankind are linked together ; all men have a right to
all that all men have achieved. Everything illustrates everything. And
Emerson foresaw the reading of the history of Nature and its effect ott
man, which Darwin later unfolded.
In “ Self-Reliance ** the author startles us with his “ Whoso would be a
man must be a nonconformist,’’ and teaches us the dcadness that is in
mere acquiescence and conventionalism. We hear the echo of the old
Apostle’s “ Prove all things ; hold fast that which is good.’' He warns
us plainly of the cost ; he allows that for nonconformity the world will
chastise us ; but he reprobates the man who consents to be a nonentity
in order to secure placid approval. He insists on the important lesson
that virtue and vice appear in every minutest action of a man, not only
in his chosen and calculated deeds or words.
In Emerson’s attitude towards prayer in this essay, we see the same
spirit of self-reliance. Down with vain regrets, he cries; down with
begging for private ends. Commune with God, and let your work,
thought, expression, all be true prayer. Be self-reliant, and all doors
are open to you, all honour and love are yours.
In his essay on Love, we feel, not so much that Emerson fails, as that
no man could succeed. The highest theme of human nature is not to
be adequately pourtrayed in essay form. It defies analysis : it can only
be presented personally. In resorting to Romeo and Juliet, Emerson
Introduction,
V
practically confesses that he cannot rival Shakespeare’s exposition; but
he trusts the soul to the end, and looks for a future where thoughts of
sex and personal partiality shall be swallowed up in something yet fuller
and more beautiful.
In dealing with Friendship, our author is on more homely ground, a
donfain where simple truth and tenderness suffice How much is
involved in these words, how far they will carry a man, may be well
learnt in his pages.
The essay on the “ Over-soul ** comes back to the leading thought in
“History” — that all mankind are linked together. This is one of
Emerson's writings which is especially charged with pantheism. But if
for the words “ Unity,’* “ Over-soul,” we read “ God,” we may find a
simple solution. If Emerson had written “God** all through, each
reader would have attached to the word his own special notion of the
Deity. The essayist approaches the subject from a human point of
view, using only human images. We can read into it our own special
theology if we will; he commits us to none. Yet he teaches us most
ehectually, “ There is no bar or wall in the soul where man, the effect,
ceases, and God, the cause, begins.”
In his treatment of the Intellect, Emerson is discursive rather than
exhaustive. One pleasing and encouraging theme he dwells on is the
richness of every man’s store. “ The walls of rude minds are scrawled
all over with facts, with thoughts. They shall one day bring a lantern
and read the inscriptions.” But when he comes to discuss the Poet, he
is fain to admit that here is a combination beyond the reach of mere
ambition, a gift to be watched and waited for, to be rejoiced in and
revered. This is to say over again, “ A poet is born, not made; *^ but it
needs saying, as poetasters continually exemplify to us.
The first series of Essays, concluding jvith that on Art, was published
in 1841, It was followed by a second series in 1844, in the first of which
the author worthily exalts the function of the poet. This is followed
by moralising on experience and its lessons. “ Life is a series of sur-
prises,” he tells us. “Character** is an essay full of power in the
making of character.
“Manners ” is the next subject ; and their influence is strikingly un-
folded and reasonably and persuasively defended. In ‘Nature” the
secrets of the outer world are unfolded to us; motion and rest, and
correspondence ; and while it is impressed upon us that we live in a
system of approximations, we are comforted by the assurance that after
death the reality is more excellent than the report which nature has
made of the divine mind.
In “ Politics ” Emerson shows himself to belong to that ii|imerou9
class of intellectual and moral men who disbelieve in, and consequently
VJ
Introduction,
bold aloof from, the machinery of politics. The less government we
have the better.” He looks to the growth of the influence of privuie
character, the appearance of wise men upon the earth, who need no
coercing, no governing. But in this hope he looks far ahead of facts,
and also forgets or does not realise the co-operative works of govern-
ment which we now see so largely developing. In “ Nominalist ‘iand
Realist we feel in the presence of paradoxes, and many readers will
not sympathise with or understand the real purport of many of its
author’s expressions. He is really feeling towards an expression of the
all-tolerance of the divine mind, of the fact that all things, even the
most incongruous, have their place in the world-scheme. “ Every man
is a hint of the truth, but far enough from being that truth.”
In “ Representative Men,” published in 1850, Emerson takes us with
him to “ feed on genius and refresh ourselves from too much conversa-
tion with ourselves.” The uses of great men as elevators, as inspirers,
2.3 marks for our aim are well set forth, with the limitations which nature
iiself imposes on their availableness, thus compelling us to become all
we may be. In his selection of representative men, Emerson has not
recorded his opinion that they are the greatest, but only that they stand
among the greatest and afford types useful to study. In terming
Napoleon 'Uhe man of the world,” we feel that he meant rather “ the
man of action,” of the utmost practical achievement in a worldly way.
Goethe he places lower than many of us would ; but it yet remains to
be proved whether Emerson was not correct in his judgment.
“ English Traits ” (1856) presents us with one of the clearest views of
“ourselves as others see us,” interesting, too, by its records of Words-
worth, Carlyle, Coleridge and others. The earlier addresses which
follow are most interesting as being those by which Emerson first won
his renown. The tract on N|iture, published in 1836, representing
physical nature as an inferior incarnation of the Divine ivlind, was
especially fruitful in its antagonism to the popular view of God as a
distant External Ruler. Man, too, was glorified as an intermediate
phase of being, capable of rising to God or lowering himself to be the
mere victim of his environment. Natural and spiritual law were one,
a discovery which many still have to make.
The lecture, entitled “The Transcendentalist ” (1842), has been said
to rival the finest pages of “Sartor Resartiis.” It seemed to travel far
on the road to Pantheism. “ Everything real is self-existent,” says
Emerson. “ Everything divine shares the self-existence of Deity.”
In his wide inclusiveness of belief he admits miracles, inspiration,
ecstasy, almost any extravagance of faith. The Transcendentalists
he recommends as speaking for principles not marketable or perish-
able. We owe it largely to Emerson that many of their productions
Introduction. ^
are now among the most marketable, as they are certainly among the
ieast perishable.
“Society and Solitude'* is merely named from the first essay in the
Collection, published in i860, of which the first edition was exhausted
in two days. The other essays are more striking lhan the first. He
exalfs the greatness involved in Civilisation ; he shows Art as one in
all its forms ; he expounds the attractions of Eloquence ; he raises a
lofty ideal and censures a grovelling degradation of Domestic Life >
he gives a delightful encomium on the best books ; he shows how
well he appreciates the true value of clubs, a value somewhat lost
sight of in our days of superficiality, sensationalism and newspaper
scraps. In Fate, the first essay in “The Conduct of Life,” he remark-
ably anticipates and accords with the philosophy of evolution as ex-
pounded by Herbert Spencer and Darwin. Yet he manfully vindicates
the freedom of will as consistent with the influence of fate, of necessity,
of heredity. He shows how fate means limitation, and yet how fata
may be dared, may even be coerced into working for us ; and he claims
that fate involves amelioration, and that the whole world is being
refined for higher use.
“Power,** again, is eminently a scientific essay. “ The mind that is
parallel with the laws of Nature will be in the current of events, and
strong with their strength.** Nothing comes without an effort ; but
everything may come by the right effort. While insisting on the value
of health, and even of ferocity, he gives the highest place to concen-
tration and decision. In “ Wealth ** Emerson preaches the duty of
every man to add to the common stock, to do something in return for
bis existence ; and he shows how we all may be rich in the common
property of our city or nation, while obeying the laws of moderation in
our private possessions. He quenches t^e protectionist and the ** fair-
tradcr ** with his “ Give no bounties ; make equal laws ; secure life and
property, and you need not give alms. Open the doors of opportunity
to talent and virtue^ and they will do themselves justice ; and property
will not be in bad hands.’*
In “Culture** we find discussed the frequent combination of culture
with egotism, the balancing and moderating effects of culture, the
effects of education, books, and school-companionships, the benefits of
travel and of dwelling in cities, and the sphere of culture in reinforcing
and controlling the higher faculties. The essay on “ Behaviour ** is a
strong exposition of the power of manners, and the important relation
they bear to character.
Religion, Emerson calls, in the essay on “ Worship,** the flowering and
completion of man’s culture. He is not dismayed at the declines or fall
of successive religions, for “ God builds his temple in the heart on the
ruins of churches and religions.** He powerfully attacks the Sequent
viii Introduction,
divorce between religion and morality, the acceptance in poVl^cn of
men whose moral conduct is known to be disgraceful, the setting of
religious creeds above morality, which, if anything, is the expression ol
eternal law. He also shows how closely religious belief in all ages has
stood to great achievements, and what an intimate relation intellect
and morals bear to one another. “ If your eye is on the eternal, your
intellect will grow.” He assigns, many will think, too slight a place to
the emotions in religion ; but all will agree that an emotion which does
not improve morals or suffers them to be lax is of little value compared
with voluntary and persevering obedience to the Divine laws and per-
formance of one’s work in the world:
In his essay on “ Beauty,” Emerson shoots some witty darts at the
dry-as-dust scientist and at exclusive professional aims. He shows
how man is dominated by a love of beauty, although the end so often
eludes his grasp when he is most devotedly pursuing it. He is here at
one with Mr. Ruskin, in identifying the truly useful with the beautiful.
Truth and use first of all, he says ; beauty is involved in that. Yet he
allows that the highest beauty is that which speaks to the imagination,
'ind asserts that all high beauty has a moral element in it.
With “ Illusions ” for his theme, Emerson is in an enchanted land of
fancy, calling up the fond imaginings of childhood, the dreams of youtli,
the astonishing phantasms of manhood. He leads us through a series
of poetical pictures which interest and instruct us, while enforcing the
lesson to be sound at the core, honest in essence.
In all these essays, Emerson is pre-eminently the preacher, a preacher
not of a supercilious type, but a human being, personally affected by
the things he preaches, a man who knows the facts of human nature,
the temptations and the dangers of man^s course, the aspirations and
the failures of mortality. High above us, yet in some degree attainable
by all, he sets an unfailing ideal of truth, nobility, virtue, love, which
may make us one with the Eternal Power. In his old age he struck
Carlyle as “ confidently cheerful.’ That is a delightful fact to re-
member about “ the most shining intellectual glory and the most
potent intellectual force ** of the New World.
G. T. B.
CGNTENTS.
History
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Nature
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POT.ITICS . . . .
Nominalist and Khaims r .
New Enc;lani) Kh formers
KEPKI
SENTATIVE
MEN.
Uses of Great Men.
Plato; or, The PniLOsoniER
Plato; New Readings
PA'ZK
5
15
2 '^
35
45
50
57
62
tr
75
8i
87
5 a
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113
120
133
131
13 )
145
15^
iGi
169
179
2
CONTENTS.
Swedenborg ; or. The Mystic . . • «
*
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PAOE
. 182
Montaigne ; or, The Sceptic . . ^ ,
•
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Shakespeare; or, The Poet
a
.
, 206
Napoleon ; or. The Man of the World .
,
r,
.
. 214
Goethe ; or. The Writer . . . . ,
•
»r 223
ENGLISH TRAITS.
POrst Visit to England .
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231
Voyage to England .
,
. ,
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236
Land
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Ability . . . . ,
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Manners . . , .
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Truth , . . , ^
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Character ... a
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Cockayne . . , ,
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267
Wealth
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Aristuckacv
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UNIVERbia'IE-S
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Relkhon ....
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Literature . . . ,
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The “Times”
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304
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Speech at Manchester .
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MISCKLLANTES.
NATfiRE, Introduction— -Commodity Jto.iiity Lniy;.^u:i/'o Di riplinu Idea-
lism— Spirit — Prospects . . . , . . • . • • .
The American Scholar. An Oration Delivered bef'.)re tJie Phi Peta K'appa
. Society, at Cambridf^e, Aupmst 31, 1837 329
An Address Delivered before the Senior Class in Divinity Cu!lepe‘, Cambrid;^^,
Sunday Evening, July 15, 1838 338
LitI'IRARY Ethics. An Oration Delivered before the Literary Societies of
De.rtmouth College, July 2.\, 1838 316
The PIethoi) oe Nature. An Oration Delivered before the Society of the
elphi, in Waterville College, Maine, August II, 1841 .... -yyj
CONTENTS.
3
Man the Reformer. A Lecture Read before the Mechanic^' Apprentices’
Library Association, Boston, January 25, 1841
Lecture on the Times. Read at the Masonic Temple, Boston, December 2,
1841
The Conservativi-:. A Lecture Delivered at the Masonic Temple, l>oston,
©ecember 9, 184 1
The Transcendentalist. A Lecture Rcaa at the Masonic Temple, Boston,
January, 1.S42
The VoLJNt; American, A Lecture Read before the Mercantile Library
Association, 1 Boston, February 7, 1S44 * . .
SOCILTY
AND .SOLITU
DE.
SfOCIETV ANU SOLITUDI'
ClVH.IZATION
Art ....
Eloouence ,
Domestic Liitc .
Far MI NO.
Works and Days
Books ....
Clues ....
Courage
.Success
Old Age
Fortune of the IvEi’unLic.
March 30, 1878
Lecture Deii\crcd .it the (Gl J
1 Churcli
CONDUCT OF LIFE
Fate
•
'
Wealth . . . . ^
p
Culture . . : . .
,
,
IHUIAVIOUR . . , , .
f
WoRsiiir . . . .
,
,
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Con.siderations rv ini: Wav,
.
,
.
Beauty
Illusions . . . • »
«
,
9
PAGK
363
371
380
388
39b
‘F '3
40S
412
418
4.:8
43)
4 10
4 18
4 5b
4^3
470
177
484
433
513
5M
533
5it
55 ^
5b I
568
4
CONTENTS.
LETTERS AND SOCIAL AIMS.
PAGE
Poetry and Imagination v .... 573
Social Aims. 592
Eloquence .,o r 599
Resources . . . . , # o o a » . . . . ^>05
The Comic 0 0 » . ^9
Quotation and Originality . • * . i 1 - » . . 614
Progress of Culture . . • 6 i » > » » 0 . 621
Persian Poetry . . , . ^ 0 , 3 0 62S
Inspiration . . , . ^ 0 3 9 t j j ^ ^ 3 ^
Greatness .• ^’43
Immortality ^ . (^43
ESSAYS
HISTORY.
There is no preat ani no small
To the Soul that inaketh all .
And where it cometh, all things are;
And it cometh everywhere.
i ara owner ol the sphere,
Of the seven stars and the solar year.
Of Caisar’s hand, and Plato’s brain,
Of Lord Christ’s heart, and Shakespeare's
strain.
There is one mind common to all indi-
vidual 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
iL'idorstand. Who hath access to this
universal mind is a party to all that is or
can be done, for this is the only and
sovereign agent.
Of the works of this mind history is the
record. Its genius is illustrated by the
entire series of days. Man is explicable
by nothing less than all his history.
Without hurry, without rest, the human
spirit goes forth from the beginning to
embody every faculty, every thought,
every emotion, which belongs to it in
appropriate events. But the thought is
always prior to the fact ; all the facts of
history pre-exist in the mind as laws.
Each law in turn is made by circumstances
predominant, and the limits of nature
give power to but one at a time. A man
is the whole eucyclopoedia of facts. The
creation of a thousand forests is in one
acorn, and Egypt, Greece, Rome, Gaul,
Britain, America, lie folded already in the
first man. Epoch after epoch, camp,
kingdom, empire, republic, democracy,
are merely the applications of his mani-
lold spirit to the manifold world.
This human mind wrote history, and
this must read it. The Sphinx must solve
her own riddle, If the whole of history
is in one man, it Is all to be explain^xj
from individual experience. Tnere is a
relation between the hours of our life and
the centuries of time. As the air I breathe
is drawn from the great repositories of
nature, as the light on my book is yielded
by a star a hundred million of miles dis-
tant, as the poise of my body depends on
the equilibrium of centrifugal and centri-
petal forces, so the hours should be
instructed by the ages, and the ages
explained by the hours. Of the uni-
versal mind each individual man is one
more incarnation. All its properties con-
sist in him. Each new fact in his private
experience flashes a light on what great
bodies of men have done, and the crises
of his life refer to national crises. Every
revolution was first a thought in one man’s
mind, and when the same thought occurs
to another man, it is the key to that era.
Every reform was once a private opinion,
and when it shall be a private opinion
again, it will solve the problem of the age.
The fact narrated must correspond to
something in me to be credible or intelli-
gible.* 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 ex-
perience, or we shall learn nothing rightly.
What befell Asdrubal or Caesar Borgia is
as much an illustration of the mind’s
powers and deprivations as what has be-
fallen us. Each new law and political
movement has meaning for you. Stand
before each of its tablets and say, “ Under
this mask did my Proteus nature hide
itself.” This remedies the defect of our
too great nearness to ourselves, This
throws our actions into perspective : and
as crabs, goats, scorpions, the balance,
and the water-pot lose their meanness
when hung as signs in the zodiac,^© I can
see my own vices without heat ir%he dis-
tant persons of Solomon, Alcibiados, and
Catlliae.
e
ESSA YS.
It is the universal nature which gives
worth to particular men and things.
Human life as containing this is mysteri-
ous and inviolable, and we hedge it round
with penallies and laws. All laws derive
hence their ultimate reason ; all express
more or less distinctly some command of
this supreme, illimitable essence. Pro-
perty also holds of the soul, covers great
spiritual facts, and instinctively we at
first hold to it with swords and laws, and
wide and complex combinations. The
obscure consciousness of this fact is the
light of all our day, the claim of claims ;
the plea for education, for justice, for
charity, the foundation of friendship and
love, and of the heroism and grandeur
which belongs to acts of self-reliance. It ,
is r^miarkable that involuntarily we always
read as superior beings. Universal his-
tory, the poets, the romancers, do not in
their ctatelicst pictures — in the sacer-
dotal, the imperial palaces, in the tri-
umphs of w'ill or of genius — anywhere lose
our ear, anywhere make us feel that we
intrude, tliat this is for better men ; but
rather is it true, that in their grandest
strokes we feel most at home. All that
Shakespeare says of the king, yonder slip
of a boy that reads in the corner feels to
be true of himself. VVe sympathise 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 w'as searched,
the land was found, or the blow was struck
/or us, as we ourseh es in that place would
have done or applauded.
We have the same interest in condition
and character. We honour the rich, be-
cause they have externally the freedom,
(power, and grace which we feel to be |
proper to man, proper to us. So all that
is said of the wise man by Stoic, or Ori-
ental or modern essayist, describes to
each reader his own idea, describes his
uuattained but attainable self. All litera-
ture writes the character of the wise man.
Pooks, monuments, pictures, conversa-
tion, 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 w'herever he
moves as by personal allusions. A true
aspirant, therefore, never need look for
allusions personal and laudatory in dis-
course. He hears the commendation, not
of himself, but more sweet, of that cha-
racter h^ seeks, in every word that is said
concerning character, yea, further, in
every fact and circumstance, in the run
ning river and the rustling coin. Praisfl
is looked, homage tendered, love flows
from mute nature, from the mountains
and the lights of the firmament.
These hints, dropped as it were from
sleep and night, let us use in broad day.
The student is to read history actively
and not passively ; to esteem his owi! life
the text, and books the commentary.
Thus compelled, the Muse of history wilt
utter oracles, as never to those who do
[ not respect themselves. I have no ex-
pectation that any man will read history
aright, who thinks that what was done in
a remote age, by men whose names have
resounded far, has any deeper sense than
what he is doing to-day.
, The world exists for the education of
! each man. There is no age or state of
society or mode of action in history, to
t which there is not somewhat correspond-
! ing in his life. Everything tends in a
I wonderful manner to abbreviate itself
I and yields its own virtue to him. He
should see that he can live ail 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 trans-
fer the point of view from which history
is commonly read, from Rome and Athens
and London to liimself, and not deny his
conviction lliat he is the court, and if
Imgland or higypt have anything to say to
him, he will try the case ; if not, let them
for ever bo silent. He must attain and
maintain that lofty sight where facts yield
their secret sense, and poetry and annals
are alike. The instinct of the mind, the
purpose of nature, betrays itself in the
use we make of the signal narrations of
history. Time dissipates to shining ether
the solid angularity of facts. No anchor,
no cable, no fences, avail to keep a fact a
fact. Labylon, Troy, Tyre, Palestine,
and early Rome, have passed or are
passing into fiction. The Garden of Kden,
the sun standing still in Gibeon, is poetry
thenceforward to all nations. Who cares
what the fact was, when we have made a
constellation of it to hang in heaven an
immorial sign? London and Paris and
New York must go the same way. “ What
is History,” said Napoleon, ” but a fable
agreed iqion ? ” This life of ours is stuck
round with Egypt, Greece, Gaul, England,
War, Colonisation, Church, Court, and
Commerce, as with so many flowers and
wild ornaments grave and gay. I will not
make more account of them. I bolievo
HISTORY.
In Eternity, 1 can find Greece, Asia,
Italy, Spain, and the Islands — the genius
and creative principle of each and of all
eras in my own mind.
We are always coming up with the
emphatic facts of history in our private
experience, and verifying them here. All
histofy becomes subjective ; in other
words, there is properly no history, only
biography. Every mind must know the
whole lesson for itself — must go over the
whole ground. What it does not see,
what it does not live, it will not know.
What the former age has epitomised into
a formula or rule for rnanipular conveni-
ence, it will lose all the good of verifying
for itself, by means of the wall of that
rule. Somewhere, sometime, it will de-
mand 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 nothing.
Every law wliich the state enacts indi-
cates a fact in hiinuin nature; that is all.
Wo must in ourselves sec the necessary
reason of every fact— see liow it could
and must be. So stand before every
public and private work; before an oration
of liurke, before a victory of Napoleon,
before a martyrdom of Sir Thomas More,
of Sidney, of Marmaduke Robinson, before
a French Reign of Terror, and a Salem
hanging of witches, before a fanatic Re-
vival, and the Animal Magnetism in Paris,
or in Providence. We assume that we
under lik>s inlluence should be like alTected,
and should achieve the like; and we aim
to master intellectually the steps, and
reach the same height or the same degra-
dation, that of fellow, our proxy, has
done.
All inquiry into antiquity — all curiosity
respecting the Pyramids, the excavated
cities, Stonehenge, the Ohio Circles,
Mexico, Mempiiis-— is the desire to do
away this wild, savage, and preposterous
There or Then, and introduce in its place
the Here and the Now. Belzoni digs and
measures in the mummy-pits and pyra-
mids of Thebes, until he can see the end
of the difference between the monstrous
vi^ork and himself. When he has satisfied
himself, in general and in detail, that it
was made by such a person as ho, 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 sphinges and catacombs,
7
passes through them all with satisfaction,
and they live again to the mind, or aie
now.
A Gothic cathedral affirms that it was
done by us, and not done by us. Surely
it was by man, but we find ic not in our
man. But we apply ourselves to the his-
tory of its production. We put ourselves
into the place and state of the builder.
We remember 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
carving over the whole mountain of stone
of a cathedral. When we have gone
through this process, and added thereto
the Catholic Church, its cross, its music,
its processions, its Saints’ days and image-
worship, we have, as it were, been the
man that made the minister; 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 colour and size and
other accidents of appearance ; others by
intrinsic likeness, or by the relation of
cause and effect. The progress of the
intellect is to the clearer vision of causes,
which neglects surface differences. To
the poet, to the philosopher, to the .saint,
all things are friendly and sacred, all
events profitable, all days holy, all men
divine. For the eye is fastened on the
life, and slights the circumstance. Every
chemical 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 rjl-creating nature, soft and fluid as a
cloud or The air, why should we be such
hard pedints, and magnify a few forms?
Why should we make account of time, or
of magiiRude, or of figure? The soul
knows them not, and genius, obeying its
laws, knows how to play with them as a
young child plays with greybeards and in
churches. Genius studies the casual
thought, and far back, in the womb of
things, soes the rays parting from one
orb, that diverge ere they fall by infinite
diameters. Genius watches the monad
through all his masks as he performs the
metempsychosis of nature. Genius de-
tects through the fly, through the cater-
pillar, through the grub, through the egg,
the constant individual ; through count'
less individvils, the fixed ^pecies ;
through many species, the genus r through
all genera, the steadfast type ; through si)
8
ESSAYS.
the kingdoms of organised life, the eternal
unity. Nature is a mutable cloud, which
is always and never the same. She casts
the same thought into troops of forms,
as a poet makes twenty fables with one
moral. Through the bruteness and tough-
ness of matter, a subtle spirit bends all
things to its own will. The adamant
streams into soft but precise form before
it, and whilst I look at it, its outline and
texture are changed again. Nothing is so
fleeting as form ; yet never does it quite
deny itself. In man we still trace the
remains or hints of all that we esteem
badges of servitude in the lower races ;
yet in him they enhance his nobleness
and grace ; as lo, in ^Eschylus, trans-
formed to a cow, offends the imagination;
but how changed, when as Isis in Egypt
she meets Osiris-Jove a beautiful woman,
with nothing of the metamorphosis left
but the lunar horns as the splendid orna-
ment of her brows !
The identity of history is equally in-
crinsic, the diversity equally obvious.
There is at the surface infinite variety of
things; at the centre there is simplicity
of cause. How many are the acts of one
man in which we recognise the same
character ! Observe the sources of our
information in respect to the Greek
genius. We have tlie civil history of that
people, as Herodotus, Thucyoides, Xeno-
phon, and Plutarch have given it; a very
sufficient account ot what manner of per-
sons they were, and what they did. We
have the same national mind expressed
for us again in their litemticre, in epic and
lyric poems, drama, and pliilosophy ; a
very complete form. Then we have it
once more in their archilccture, a Upauty
as of temperance itself, limited to the
straight line and the square — a builded
geometry. Then we have it once ag.iin in
sculpture, the “ tongue on the balance of
expression,” a multitude of forms in the
utmost freedom of action, and never
transgressing the ideal serenity ; like
votaries performing some religious dance
before the gods, and, though in convulsive
pain or mortal combat, never daring to
break the figure and decorum of their
dance Thus, of the genius of one re-
markable people, we have a fourfold
representation; and to the senses what
more unlike than an ode of Pindar, a
marble centaur, the peristyle of the Par-
thenon, and the last actions of Phocion.
Everyone must have observed faces
and forms which, without any resembling
feature, make a like impression on the
beholder, A particular picture ot copy
of verses, if it do not awaken the same
train of images, will yet superinduce the
same sentiment as some wild mountain
walk, although the resemblance is nowise
obvious to the senses, but is occult and
out of the reach of the understanding.
Nature is an endless combination, and
repetition of a very few laws. She hums
the old well-known air through innume-
rable variations.
Nature is full of a sublime family like-
ness throughout her works, and delights
in startling us with resemblances in the
most unexpected quarters. I have seen
the head of an old sachem of the forest,
which at once reminded the eye of a bald
mountain summit, and the furrows of the
brow suggested the strata of the rock.
There are men whose manners have the
same essential splendour as the simple
and awful sculpture on the friezes of the
Parthenon, and the remains of the earliest
Greek art. And there are compositions
of the same strain to be found in the
books of all ages. What is Guido’s Kos-
pigliosi Aurora but a morning thought, as
the horses in it are only a morning cloud ?
If anyone will but take pains lo observe
the variety of actions lo which he is
equally inclined in certain moods of
mind, and those to which he is averse, he
will see how deep is the chain of affinity.
A {)ainter 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 watch-
ing fora lime liis motions and plays, the
painter enters into his nature, and can
then draw him at will in every attitude.
So Koos “ entered into the inmost nature
of a sheep.” I knew a draughtsman em-
ployed in a public survey, who found that
he could not sketch the rocks until their
geological structure was fir.st cx[dained
to him. In a certain state ot thought is
the common origin of very diverse works.
It is the spirit and not the fact that is
identical. By a deeper apprehension,
and not primarily by a painful acquisition
ot many manual skills, the artist attains
the power ot awakening other souls to &
given activity.
It has been said that ” common souls
pay with what they do; nobler souls
with that which they are.” And why ?
Because a profound nature awakens in us
by its actions and words, by its very looks
and manners, the same power and beauty
that a gallery ot sculpture, or of pictures,
addresses.
HISTORY.
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
are lame copies after a divine model.
Strasburg Cathedral is a material coun-
terpart of the soul of Erwin of Steinbach.
The true poem is the poet’s mind ; the
true ship is the shipbuilder. 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 pre-exist in the secreting organs
of the fish. The whole of heraldry and
of chivalry is in courtesy. A man of fine
manners shall pronounce your name with
all the ornament that titles of nobility
could ever add.
The trivial experience of every day is
always verifying some old prediction to
as, and converting into things the words
and signs whick we had heard and seen
without heed, A lady with whom I was
riding in the forest said to me that the
woods always seemed to her io wait, as if
the genii who inhabit them suspended |
their deeds until the wayfarer has passed |
onward ; a thought which poetry has cele-
brated in the dance of the fairies, which
breaks off on the approach of human feet.
The man who has seen the rising moon
break out of the clouds at midnight has
been present like an archangel at the i
creation of light and of the world. I re-
member one summer day, in the fields,
my companion pointed out to me a broad
cloud, wliich might extend a quarter of a
mile parallel to the horizon, quite accu-
rately in tlie form of a cherub as painted
over churches — a round block in the
centre, which it was easy to animate with
eyes and mouth, supported on either side
by wide -stretched symmetrical wings.
What appears once in the atmosphere
may appear often, and it was undoubtedly
the archetype of that familiar ornament.
I have seen in the sky a chain of summer
lightning which at once showed to me
that the Greeks drew from nature when
they painted the thunderbo’t in the hand
of Jove. I have seen a snow-drift along
the sides of the stone wall which obvi-
ously gave the idea of the common archi-
tectural scroll to abut a tower.
By surrounding ourselves with the
original circumstances, we invent anew
the orders and the ornaments of archi-
9
tecture, as we see how each people
merely decorated its primitive abodes.
The Doric temple preserves the semblance
of the wooden cabin in which the Dorian
dwelt. The Chinese pagoda is plainly a
Tartar tent. The Indian and Egyptian
temples still betray the mounds and sub-
terranean houses of their forefathers.
“ The custom of making houses and
tombs in the living rock,” says Heeren,
in his Researches on the Ethiopians,
” determined very naturally the principal
character of t^e Nubian Egyptian archi-
tecture to the colossal form which it as-
sumed. In these caverns, already prepared
by nature, the eye was accustomed to
dwell on huge shapes and masses, so that
when art came to the assistance of nature,
it could not move on a small scale without
degrading itself. What would statutes of
the usual size, or neat porches and wings,
have been, associated with those gigantic
halls before which only Colossi could sit
as watchmen, or lean on the pillars of the
interior ? ”
The Gothic church plainly originated in
a rude adaptation of the forest trees with
all their boughs to a festal or solemn
arcade, as the bands about the cleft pillars
still indicate the green withes that tied
them. No one can vralk in a road cut
through pine woods, without being struck
with the architectural appearance of the
grove, especially in winter, when the bar-
renness of all other trees shows the low
arch of the Saxons. In the woods in a
winter afternoon one will see as readily
the origin of the stained glass window,
with which the Gothic cathedrals are
adorned, in the colours of the western
sky seen through the bare and crossing
branches of the forest. Nor can any lover
of nature enter tlie old piles of Oxford
and the English cathedrals, without feeling
that the forest overpowered the mind of
the builder, and that his chisel, his saw,
and plane still reproduced its ferns, its
spikes of flowers, its locust, elm, oak, pine,
fir, and spruce.
The Gothic cathedral is a blossoming
in stone subdued by the insatiable demand
of harmony in man. The mountain of
granite blooms into an eternal flower,
with the lightness and delicate finish, as
well as the aerial proportions and perspec-
tive, of vegetable beauty.
In like manner, all public facts are to
be individualised, all private facts are to
bo generalised. Then at onca History
becomes fluid and true, and Eiography
deep and sublime. As the Persian imitated
to
ESSAYS.
hi the lAender shafts and capitals of his
nrchiiiictiire the stem and flower of the
lotus and palm, so the Persian court in
its magnificent era never gave over the
nomadism of its barbarous tribes, but
travelled from Ecbatana, where the spring
was spent, to Susa in summer, and to
Babylon for the winter.
In the early history of Asia and Africa,
Nomadism and Agriculture are the two
antagonist facts. The geography of Asia
and of Africa necessitated a nomadic life.
But the nomads were the terror of all
those whom the soil, or the advantages of
8 market, had induced to build towns.
Agriculture, therefore, was a religious in-
juaction, 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 gadfly,
which drives the cattle mad, and so com-
pels the tribe to emigrate in the rainy
season, and to drive off the cattle to the
higher sandy regions. The nomads of
Asia follow the pasturage from month to
month. In America and Europe, the no-
madism is of trade and curiosity ; a pro-
gress, certainly, from the gadfly of Asta-
boras to the Anglo and Italomania 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 residence are
the restraints on the i tineracy 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 predominate. A man of rude
health and flowing spirits has the faculty
of rapid domestication, lives in his wagon,
and roams through all latitudes as easily
as a Calmuc. At sea. or in the forest, or
in the snow, he sleeps as warm, dines
with as good appetite, and associates as
happily, as beside his own chimneys. Or
perhaps his facility is deeper seated, in
the increased range of his faculties of
observation, which yield him points of
interest wherever fresh objects meet his
eyes. The pastoral nations were needy
and hungry to desperation ; and this in-
tellectual nomadism, in its excess, bank-
rupts the mind, through the dissipation of
power cyi a miscellany of objects. The
home-kffeping wit, on the other hand, is
that continence or content which finds all
the elements of life in its own soh and
which has its own perils of monotony and
deterioration, if not stimulated by foreign
infusions.
Everything the individual sees without
him corresponds to his states of mind,
and everything is in turn intelligible to
him, as his onward thinking leads him
into the truth to which that fact or series
belongs.
The primeval world — the Fore-World,
as the Germans say — I can dive to it in
myself as well as grope for it with re-
searching fingers in catacombs, libraries,
and the broken reliefs and torsos of
ruined villas.
What is the foundation of that interest
all men feel in Greek history, letters, art,
and poetry, in all its periods, from the
Heroic or Homeric age down to the
domestic life of the Athenians and Spar-
tans, four or five centuries later ? What
but this, that every man passes person-
ally through a Grecian period. The
Grecian state is the era of the bodily
nature, the perfection of the senses — of
the spiritual nature unfolded in strict
unity with the body. In it existed those
human forms which supplied the sculptor
with his models of Hercules, PhiDebus,
and Jove ; not like the forms abounding
in the streets of modern cities, wherein
the face is a confused blur of features,
but cr.vmposed of incorrupt, sharply-de-
fined, and symmetrical features, whose
eye-sockets are so formed that it would be
impossible for such eyes to squint, and
take furtive glances on this side and on
that, but they must turn the whole head.
The manners of that period are plain and
fierce. The reverence exhibited is for
personal qualities, courage, address, self-
command, justice, strength, swiftness,
a loud voice, a broad chest. Luxury
and elegance are not known. A sparse
population and want make every man his
own valet, cook, butcher, and soldier,
and the habit of supplying his own needs
educates the body to w-onderful perform-
ances. Such are the Agamemnon and
Diomed of Homer, and not far different
is the picture Xenophon gives of himself
and his compatriots in the Retreat of the
Ten Thousand. “ After the army had
crossed the river Teleboas in Armenia,
there fell much snow, and the troops lay
miserably on the ground covered with it
But Xenophon arose naked, and, taking
an axe, began to split wood ; whereupon
others rose and did the like.“ Through-
out bis army exists a boundless liberty ef
HISTORY.
speech. They quariel for plunder, they
wrangle with the generals on each new
order, and Xenophon is as sharp-tongued
as any, and sharper-tongued than most,
and so gives as good as he gets. Who
does not see that this is a gang of great
boys, with such a code of honour and lax
discipline as great boys have ?
The costly charm of the ancient tragedy,
and indeed of all the old literature, is,
that the persons speak simply — speak as
persons who have great good sense with-
out knowing it, before yet the reflective
habit has become the dominant 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 organisa-
tion in the world. Adults acted with the
simplicity and grace of children. They
made vases, tragedies, and statues, such
as healthy senses should — that is, in good
taste. Such things have continued to be
made in all ages, and are now, wherever
a healthy physique exists ; but as a class,
from their superior organisation, they
have surpassed all. They combine the
energy of manhood with the engaging un-
consciousness of childhood. The attrac- 1
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 individuals who re-
tain these characteristics. A person of
childlike genius and inborn energy is still
a Greek, and revives our love of the Muse
of Hellas. I admire the love of nature in
the Philoctetes. In reading those fine
apostrophes to sleep, to the stars, rocks,
mountains, and waves, I feel time passing
away as an ebbing sea. I feel the eternity
of man, the identity of his thought. The
Greek had, it seems, the same fellow-
feelings as I. The sun and moon, water
and fire, met his heart precisely as they
meet mine. Then the vaunted distinc-
tion between Greek and English, between
Classic and Romantic schools, seems
superficial and pedantic. When a thought
of Plato becomes a thought to me — when
a truth that fired the soul of Pindar fires
mine, time is no more. When I feel that
we two meet in a perception, that our two
souls are tinged with the same hue, and
do, as it were, run into one, why should I
measure degrees of latitude, why should
1 count Egyptian years.
The student interprets the age of
chivalry by his own age of chivalry, and
the days of maritime adventure and cir*
If
cumnavigation by quite parallel minia-
ture experiences of his own. To the
sacred history of the world, he has the
same key. When the voice of a prophet
out of the deeps of antiquity merely
echoes to him a sentiment of his infancy,
a prayer of his youth, he then pierces to
the truth through all the confusion of
tradition and the caricature of institu-
tions.
Rare, extravagant spirits come by us at
intervals, who disclose to us new facts in
nature. I see that men of God have, from
time to time, walked among men and
made their commission felt in the heart
and soul of the commonest hearer. Hence,
evidently, the tripod, the priest, the
priestess inspired by the divine afllatus.
Jesus astonishes and overpowers sen-
sual people. They cannot unite him to
history, or reconcile him with themselves.
As they come to revere their intuitions
and aspire to live holily, their own piety
explains every fact, eve ry word.
How easily these old worships of Moses,
of Zoroaster, of Menu, of Socrates, do-
mesticate themselves in Uie mind. I can-
not find any antiquity in them. They are
mine as much as theirs.
I have seen the first monks and
anchorets without crossing seas or cen-
turies. More than once some individual
has appeared to me with such negligence
of labour and such commanding contem-
plation, a haughty beneficiary, begging in
the name of God, as made good to the
nineteenth century Simeon the Stylite,
the Thebais, and the first Capuchins.
The priestcraft of the East and West, of
the Magian, Brahmin, Druid, and Inca, is
expounded in the individual’s private life.
The cramping influence of a hard formalist
on a young child in repressing his spirits
and courage, paralysing the understand-
ing, and that without producing indigna-
tion, but only fear and obedience, and
even much sympathy with the tyranny, —
is a familiar fact explained to the child
when he becomes a man, only by seeing
that the oppressor of his youth is himself
a child tyrannised over by those names
and w'ords and forms, of whose influence
he was merely the organ to the youth.
The fact teaches him how Belus was wor-
shipped, and how the Pyramids were
built, better than the discovery by Cham-
pollion 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 edirses.
Again, in that protest which each oo0-
It
ESSAYS.
giderate person makes against the super-
stition of his times, be repeats step for
step the part of old reformers, and in the
search after truth finds like them new
perils to virtue. He learns again what
moral vigour is needed to supply the
girdle of a superstition. A great licen-
tiousness treads on the heels of a refor-
mation. 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 I '* Doctor,’* said his wife
to Martin Luther, one day, “ how is it
that, whilst subject to papacy, we prayed
so often and with such fervour, whilst now
we pray with the utmost coldness and
very seldom ? ”
The advancing man discovers how deep
a property he has in literature — in all
fable as well as in all history. He finds
that the poet was no odd fellow who de-
scribed strange and impossible situations,
but that universal man wrote by his pen
a confession true for one and true for all.
His own secret biography he finds in lines
wonderfully intelligible to him, dotted
down before he was born. One after
another he comes up in his private ad- 1
ventures with every fable of A^sop, ofj
Homer, of Hafiz, of Ariosto, of Chaucer, I
of Scott, and verifies Uiem 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 per-
petual pertinence has the story of Pro-
metheus ! Beside its primary value as
the first chapter of the history of Europe
(the mythology thinly veiling authentic
facts, the invention of the mechanic arts,
and the migration of colonies), it gives
the history of religion with some closeness
to the faith of later ages. Prometheus is
the Jesus of the old mythology. He is
the friend of man ; stands between the
unjust “ justice ” of the Eternal Father
and the race of mortals, and readily suf-
fers all things on their account. But
where it departs from the Calvinistic
Christianity, and exhibits him as the de-
fier of Jove, it represents a state of mind
which readily appears wherever the doc-
trine 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 exists, and a feeling that
the obligation of reverence is onerous. It
would Aeal, if it could, the fire of the
Creator, ^nd live apart from him, and
independent of him. The Prometheue
Vinctus is the romance of scepticism,
Not less true to all time are the details of
that stately apologue. Apollo kept the
flocks of Admetus, said the poets. When
the gods come among men, they are not
known. Jesus was not; Socrates and
Shakespeare were not. Antaeus waa suf-
focated 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 invigO'
rated by habits of conversation with
nature. The power of music, the power
of poetry to unfix, and, as it were, clap
wings to solid nature, interprets the riddle
of Orpheus, The philosophical percep-
tion of identity through endless mutations
of form makes him know the Proteus.
What else am 1 who laughed or wept yes-
terday, who slept last night like a corpse,
and this morning stood and ran ? And
what see I on any side but the transmi-
grations of Proteus ? I can symbolise my
thought by using the name of any creature,
of any fact, because every creature is man
agent or patient. Tantalus is but a name
for you and me. Tantalus means the
impossibility of drinking the waters of
thought which are always gleaming and
waving within sight of the soul. The
transmigration of souls is no fable. I
would it were ; but men and women are
only half human. Every animal of the
barn-yard, the field, and the forest, of the
earth and of the waters tliat are under the
earth, has contrived to get a footing and
to leave the print of its features and form
in some one or other of these upright,
heaven-facing speakers. Ah ! brother,
stop the ebb of thy soul — ebbing down-
ward 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 roadside and put riddles to every
passenger. If the man could not answer,
she swallowed him alive. If he could
solve the riddle, the Sphinx was slain.
What is our life but an endless flight of
winged facts or events 1 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, tyran-
nise over them, and make the men of
routine the men of sense, in whom a literal
obedience to facts has extinguished every
spark of that light by which man is trul|
HISTORY,
man. But if the man is true to his better
instincts or sentiments, and refuses the
dominion of facts, as one that comes of a
higher race, remains fast by the soul and
sees the principle, then the facts fall aptly
and supple into their places ; they know
their master, and the meanest of them
glorijhes him.
See in Goethe’s Helena the same desire
that every word should be a thing. These
figures, he would say, these Chirons,
Griffins, Phorkyas, Helen, and Leda, are
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 humour, and gives
them body to his own imagination. And
although that poem be as vague and fan-
tastic as a dream, yet is it much more at-
tractive than the more regular dramatic
pieces of the same author, for the reason
that it operates a wonderful relief to the
mind from the routine of customary
images — awakens the reader's invention
and fancy by tlie wild freedom of the de-
sign, and by the unceasing snccossion of
brisk shocks of surprise.
The universal nature, too strong for
the petty nature of the bard, r.its on his
neck and writes through his hand ; so that
when he 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 them-
selves as a masked or frolic expression of
that which in grave earnest the mind of
that period toiled to achieve. Magic, and
all that is ascribed to it, is a deep pre-
sentiment of the powers of science. The
shoes of swiftness, the sword of sharp-
ness, the power of subduing the elements,
of using the secret virtues of minerals, of
understanding the voices of birds, are the
obscure efforts of the mind in a right'
direction. The preternatural prowess of
the hero, the gift of perpetual youth, and
the like, are alike the endeavour of the
human spirit ” to bend the show of things
to the desires of the mind.”
In Perceforest and Amadis de Gaul, a
arland and a rose bloom on the head of
er who is faithful, and fade on the brow
of the inconstant. In the story of the
Boy and the Mantle, even a mature reader
may be surprised with a glow of virtuous
pleasure at the triumph of the gentle
Genclas ; and, indeed, all the postulates
of elfin annals— that the fairies do not
*3
like to be named; that ilieir gifts are
capricious and not to be trusted; that
who seeks a treasure must not speak;
and the like — I find true in Concord,
however they might be in Cornwall or
Bretagne,
Is it otherwise in the newest romance ?
I read the Bride of Lammermoor. Sir
William Ashton is a mask for a vulgar
temptation, Ravenswood Castle, a fine
name for proud poverty, and the foreign
mission of state only a Bunyan disguised
for honest industry. We may all shoot a
wild bull that would toss the good and
beautiful, by fighting down the unjust and
sensual. Lucy Ashton is another name
for fidelity, which is always beautiful and
always liable to calamity in this world.
^ But along with the civil and metaphy-
sical history of man, another history goes
daily forward — that of the external world —
in which he is not less strictly implicated.
He is the com pend 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 in-
organic being. In old Rome the public
roads beginning at the Forum proceeded
north, south, east, west, to the centre of
every province of the empire, making
each 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 nature, to reduce it under the
dominion of man. A man is a bundle of
relations, a knot of roots, whose flower
and fruitage is the world. His faculties
refer to natures out of him, and predict
the world he is to inhabit, as the fins of
the fish foreshow that water exists, or the
wings of an eagle in the egg presuppose
air. He cannot live without a world.
Put Napoleon in an island prison, let his
faculties find no men to act on, no Alps
to climb, no stake to play for, and ha
would beat the air and appear stupid.
Transport him to largo countries, dense
population, complex interests, and anta-
gonist power, and you shall see that the
man Napoleon, bounded, that is, by such
a profile and outline, is not the virtual
Napoleon. This is but Talbot’s shadow s
” His substance is not hero :
For what you see is but the smallest part
And least proportion of humanity ;
But were tne whole frame here.
It is of such a spaciou^ lofty pit^.
Your roof were not sufficient to Antain
Henry TV.
*4
ESSAYS.
Columbus needs a planet to shape his
course upon, Newton and Laplace need
myriads of ages and thick-strewn celestial
areas. One may say a gravitating solar
system is already prophesied in the nature
of Newton’s mind. Not less does the
brain of Davy or of Gay-Lussac, from
childhood exploring the affinities and re-
pulsions of particles, anticipate the laws
of organisation. Does not the eye of the
human embryo predict the light ? the ear
of Handel predict the witchcraft of har-
monic sound ? Do not the constructive
fingers of Watt, Fulton, Whittemore,
Arkwright, predict the fusible, hard, and
temperable texture of metals, the proper-
ties of stone, water, and wood ? Do not
the lovely attributes of the maiden child
predict the refinements and decorations
of civil society? Here also we are re-
minded of the action of man on man. A
mind might ponder its thought for ages,
and not gain so much self-knowledge as
the passion of love shall teach it in a day.
Who knows himself before he has been
thrilled with indignation at an outrage, or
has heard an eloquent tongue, or has
shared the throb of thousands in a national
exultation or alarm ? No man can ante-
date his experience or guess what faculty
or feeling a new object shall unlock, any
more than he can draw to-day the face of
a person whom he shall see to-morrow for
the first time.
I will not now go behind the general
statement to explore the reason of this
correspondency. Let it suffice that in the
light of these two facts, namely, that the
mind is One, and that nature is its corre-
lative, history is to be read and v/ritten.
Thus in all ways does the soul concen-
trate 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 lan-
guages and titles a catalogue of the
volumes you have! read. You shall make
me feel what periods you have lived. A
man shall be the Temple of Fame. He
shall walk, as the poets have described
that goddess, in a robe painted all over
with wonderful events and experiences;
his own form and features by their ex-
alted intelligence shall be that variegated
vest. I shall find in him the Foreworld ;
in his childhood the Age of Gold ; the
Apples oi; Knowledge ; the Argonautic
Ezpediticu : the calling of Abraham ; the
building of the Temple; the Advent of
Christ ; Dark Ages ; the Revival of
Letters ; the Reformation ; the discovery
of new lands ; the opening of new sciences,
and new regions in man. He shall be
the priest of Pan, and bring with him into
humble cottages the blessing of the morn-
ing stars and all the recorded benefits of
heaven and earth.
Is there somewhat overweening in this
claim ? Then I reject all I have written,
for what is the use of pretending to know
what we know not ? Hut it is the fault of
our rhetoric that we cannot strongly state
one fact without seeming to belie some
other. I hold our actual knowledge very
cheap. Hear the rats in the wall, see the
lizard on the fence, the fungus under
foot, the lichen on the log. What do I
know sympathetically, morally, of either
of these worlds of life ? As old as the
Caucasian man — perhaps older— thestk
creatures have kept their counsel besifle
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 meta-
physical annals of man ? What light does
it shed on those mysteries which we hide
under the names Death and Immortality?
Yet every history should be written in a
wisdom which divined the range of our
affinities and looked at facts as symbols.
I am ashamed to see what a shallow village
tale our so-called History is. How many
times we must say Rome, and I’aris, arnl
Constantinople ! What does Rome know
of rat and lizard ? What are Olympiads
and Consulates to these neighbouring
systems of being ? Nay, what food or ex-
perience or succour have they for tho
ICsquimaux seal-hunter, for the Kanaka
in his canoe, for the fisherman, the steve-
dore, the porter ?
Hroader and deeper we must write our
annals — from an ethical reformation, from
an influx of the ever new, ever sanative
conscience — if we would truly express our
central and wide-related nature, instead
of this old chronology of selfishness and
pride to which we have too long lent our
eyes. Already that day exists for us,
shines in on us at unawares, but the path
of science and of letters is not the way
into nature. Tho idiot, the Indian, the
child, and unschooled farmer’s boy stand
nearer to the light by which nature is to
be read, than the dissector or the anti-
quary.
SELF-RELIANCE.
*5
SELF-RELIANCE.
•• No to quaesiveila extra.”
Maj[i IS his own star ; and the soul that can
Render an honest and a perfect man,
Commands all all influence, all fate ;
Nothing to h.hn tails early or too late.
Our acts our angels are, or good or ill,
Our fatal shadows that walk by us still.*’
Epilogue to Beaumont and Fletcher's Honest
Man's Fortune.
Cast the bantling on the rocks,
Suckle him with the she-wolfs teat;
Wiiilered with the hawk and fox,
Power and speed be hands and feet,
I READ the other day some verses written
by an eminent painter which were original
and not conventional, riie soul always
htiars an admonition in such lines, let the
subject be what it may. The sentiment
they instil is of more value than any
thought they may contain. To believe
your own thought, to believe that w'hat 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 univer-
sal sense ; for the inmost in due time be-
conujs the outmost—aiid our first thought
is rendered back to us by the trumpets of
ihe Last Judgment. Familiar as the
voice of the mind i.s to each, the highest
merit we ascribe to Moses, Plato, and
Milton is, that they set at naught books
and traditions, and spoke not what men
but what they thought. A man should
learn to detect and watch that gleam of
light which Hashes across his mind from
within, more than tlie lustre of the
firmament of bards and sages. Yet he
dismisses without notice his ihought, be-
cause it is his. In every work of genius
we recognise our own rejected thoughts :
they come back to us with a certain
alienated majesty. Great works of art
have no more affecting lesson for us
than this. They teach us to abide by
O’ir spontaneous impression with good-
humoured inflexibility then most when
the whole cry of voices is on the other
side. P'lso, 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 tc take with
shame our Own opinion from another.
There is a time in every man’s education
when he arrives at the conviction that envy
is ignorance; that imitation is suicide;
that he must take himself for better, for
worse, as his portion ; that though the
wide universe is full of good, no kernel of
nourishing corn can come to him but
through his toil bestowed on that plot of
ground which is given to him to till. The
power which resides in him is new in
nature, and none but he knows what that
is which he can do nor does he know until
he has tried. Not for nothing one face,
one character, one fact, makes much im-
pression on him, and another none. This
sculpture in the memory is not without
pre-established harmony. The eye was
placed where one ray should fall, that it
might testify of that particular ray. We but
half express ourselves, and are ashamed
of that divine idea which each of us re-
presents. It may be safely trusted as
proportionate and of good issues, so it be
faithfully imparted, but God will not have
his work made manifest by cowards. A
man is relieved and gay when he has put
his heart into his work and done his best,
but what he h?-s said or done otherwise,
shall give him no peace. It is a deliver-
ance which does not deliver. In the
attempt his genius deserts him ; no muse
befriends; no invention, no hope.
Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to
that iron string. Accept the place the
divine providence has found for you, tlie
society of your contemporaries, tiie con-
nection of events. Great men have always
done so, and confided themselves child-
like to the genius of their age, betraying
their perception that the absolutely trust-
worthy w.as seated at their heart, working
through their hands, predominating in all
tlicir being. And we are now men, and
must accept in the highest mind the same
transcendent destiny ; and not minors and
invalids in a protected corner, not cowards
fleeing before a revolution, but guides,
redeemers, and benefactors, obeying the
Almighty effort, and advancing on Chaos
and the Dark.
What pretty oracles nature yields us on
this text, in the face and behaviour of
children, babes, and even brutes ! That
divided and rebel mind, that distrust of a
sentiment because our arithmetic has
computed the strength and mean&opposed
to our purpose, these have nw. Their
mind being whole, their eye U as yet un*
ESSAYS,
i6
conquered, 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 unneces-
sary.
The nonchalance of boys who are sure
of a dinner, and would disdain as much
as a lord to do or say aught to conciliate
one, is the healthy attitude of human na-
ture. A boy is in the parlour what the
pit is in the playhouse — independent,
irresponsible, looking out from his corner
on such people and facts as pass by, he
tries and sentences them on their merits,
in the swift, summary way of boys, as
good, bad, interesting, silly, eloquent,
troublesome. He cumbers himself never
about consequences, about interests : he
gives an independent, genuine verdict.
You must court him ; he does not court
you. But the man is, as it were, clapped 1
into gaol by his consciousness. As soon
as he has once acted or spoken with eclat,
he is a committed person, watched by the
sympathy or the hatred of hundreds, whose
affections must now enter into his ac-
count. There is no Lethe for this. Ah,
that he could pass again into his neutral-
ity ! Who can thus avoid all pledges, and
having observed, observe again from the
same unaffected, unbiassed, unbribable,
unaffrighted inrK>cence, must always be
formidable. He would utter opinions on
all passing affairs, which being seen to be
not private, but necessary, would sink like
darts into the ear of men, and put them
in fear.
These are the voices which we hear in
solitude, but they grow faint and inaudible
as we enter into the world. Society
everywhere is in conspiracy against the
manhood of every one of its members.
Society is a joint-stock company, in which
the members agree, for the better securing
of his bread to each shareholder, to sur-
render J’le liberty and culture of the eater.
The vinue in most request is conformity.
Self-reliance is its aversion. It loves not
realities and creators, but names and
customs.
Whoso would be a man must be a non-
conformist. He who would gather im-
mortal 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 remem-
ber an answer which when quite young I
was prompted to make to a valued adviser,
who was wont to importune me with the
dear old doctrines of the church. On
my saying. What have I to do with tlie
sacredness of traditions, if I live wholly
from within ? my friend suggested : “ But
these impulses may be from below, not
from above.” I replied: “They do not
seem to me to be such ; but if I am the
Devil’s child, I will live then from the
Devil.” No law can be sacred to me but
that of my nature. Good and bad aio
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 everything were titular and epheme-
ral but he. I am ashamed to think how
easily we capitulate to badges and names,
to large societies and dead institutions.
Every decent and well-spoken individual
I affects and sways me more than is right.
I ought to go upright and vital, and speak
the rude truth in all ways. If malice and
vanity wear the coat of philanthropy,
shall that pass ? If an angry bigot assumes
tliis bountiful cause of Abolition, and
comes to me with his last news from Bar-
badoes, why should 1 not say to him : “ Go
love thy infant; love thy wood-chopper;
be good-natured and modest , have that
grace ; and never varnish your hard, un-
charitable ambition with this incredible
tenderness for black folk a thousand
miles off. Thy love afar is spite at home.”
Rough and graceless would be such greet-
ing, but truth is handsomer than the affec-
tation of love. Your goodness must have
some edge to it— -else it is none. The
doctrine of hatred must be preached as
the f ounteraction of the doctrine of love
when that pules and whines. I shun
father and mother and wife and brother
when my genius calls me. I would write
on the lintels of the door-post. Whim, I
hope it is somewhat better than whim at
last, but we cannot spend the day in ex-
planation. Expect me not to show causa
why I seek or why I exclude company,
SELF-RELIANCE. 17
Then, again, do not tell me, as a good
man did to-day, of my obligation to put
all poor men in good situations. Are
they my poor ? I tell thee, thou foolish
philanthropist, that I grudge the dollar,
the dime, the cent, I give to such men as
do not belong to me and to whom I do
not belong. There is a class of persons
to whom by all spiritual affinity I am
bought and sold; for them I will go to
prison, if need be ; but your miscellaneous
popular charities, the education at college
of fools, the building of meeting-houses
to the vain end to which many now stand,
alms to sots, and the thousand-fold Relief
Societies — though I confess with shame I
sometimes succumb and give the dollar,
it is a wicked dollar which by and by I
shall have the manhood to withhold.
Virtues are, in the popular estimate,
rather the exception than the rule. There
is the man and his virtues. Men do what
is called a good action, as some piece of
courage or charity, much as they would
pay a fine in expiation of daily non-ap-
pearance on parade. Their works are
done as an apology or extenuation of their
living in the world — as invalids and the
insane pay a high board. Their virtues
are penances. I do not wish to expiate,
but to live. My life is for itself and not
for a spectacle. I much prefer that it
should be of a lower strain, so it be
genuine and equal, than that it should be
glittering and unsteady. I wish it to be
sound and sweet, and not to need diet and
bleeding. I ask primary evidence that you
are a man, and refuse this appeal from
the man to his actions. I know that for
myself it makes no difference whether I
do or forbear those actions which are
reckoned excellent. I cannot consent to
pay for a privilege where I have intrinsic
right. F'ew and mean as my gifts may bo,
I actually am, and do not need for my
own assurance or the assurance of my
fellows any secondary testimony.
What I must do is all that concerns me,
not what the people think. This rule,
equally arduous in actual and in intel-
lectual life, may serve for the whole dis-
tinction between greatness and meanness.
It is the harder, because you will always
find those who think they know what is
your duty better than you know it. It is
easy in the world to live after the world’s
opinion ; it is easy in solitude to live after
our own ; but the great man is he who in
the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect
sweetness the independence of solitude.
The obiection to conforming to usaf^es
that have become dead to you is that it
scatters your force. It loses your time
and blurs the impression of your charac-
ter. If you maintain a dead church, con-
tribute to a dead Bible Society, vote with
a great party either for the government
or against it, spread your table like base
housekeepers — under all these screens I
have difficulty to detect the precise man
you are. And, of course, so much force
is withdrawn from your proper life. But
do your work, and I shall know you. Do
your work, and you shall reinforce your-
self. A man must consider what a blind-
man’s-buff is this game of conformity. If
I know your sect, I anticipate your argu-
ment. I hear a preacher announce for his
text and topic the expediency of one of
the institutions of his church. Do I not
know beforehand that not possibly can he
say a new and spontaneous word ? Do I
not know that, with all this ostentation of
examining the grounds of the institution,
he will do no such thing ? Do I not know
that he is pledged to himself not to look
but at one side— the permitted side, not
as a man, but as a parish minister ? He
is a retained attorney, and these airs of
the bench are the emptiest affectation.
Well, most men have bound their eyes
with one or another handkerchief, and
attached themselves to some one of these
communities of opinion. The conformity
makes them not false in a few particulars
authors of a few lies, but false in all par-
ticulars. Their every truth is not quite
true. Their two is not the real two, their
four not the real four ; so that every wora
they say chagrins us, and we know not
where to begin to set them right. Mean-
time nature is not slow to equip us in the
prison-uniform of the party to which we
adhere. We come to wear one cut efface
and figure, and acquire by degrees the
gentlest asinine expression. There is a
mortifying experience in particular, which
does not fail to wTeak itself also in the
general history ; I mean “ the foolish face
of praise,” the forced smile which we put
on in company where we do not feel at
ease in answer to conversation which
does not interest us. The muscles, not
spontaneously moved, but moved by a low
usurping wilfulness, grow tight about the
outline of the face with the most disagree-
able sensation.
For non-conformity the world whips
you with its displeasure. And therefore a
man must know how to estim^e a sour
face. The bystanders look aftance on
him in the public street or in the friend’s
i8
ESSAYS.
parlour. If this aversation had its origin every pure and wise spirit that ever took
in contempt and resistance like his own, flesh. To be great is to be misunder-
he might well go home with a sad counte- stood.
nance : but the sour faces of the multi- I suppose no man can violate his
tude, like their sweet faces, have no deep nature. All the sallies of his will are
cause, but are put on and off as the wind rounded in by the law of his being, as the
blows and a newspaper directs. Yet is the inequalities of Andes and Himmaleh are
discontent of the multitude more formid- insignificant in the curve of the sphere,
able than that of the senate and the Nor does it matter how you guage and
college. It is easy enough for a firm man try him. A character is like an acrostic
who knows the world to brook the rage of or Alexandrian stanza — read it forward,
the cultivated classes. Their rage is de- backward, or across, it still spells the
corous and prudent, for they are timid as same thing. In this pleasing, contrite
being very vulnerable themselves. But wood-life which God allows me, let mo
when to their feminine rage the indignation record day by day my honest thought
of the people is added, when the ignorant without prospect or retrospect, and, I
and the poor are aroused, when the unin- cannot doubt, it will be found sym-
telligent brute force that lies at the bottom metrical, though I mean it not and see it
of society is made to growl and mow, it not. My book should smell of pines and
needs the habit of magnanimity and re- resound with the hum of insects. The
ligion to treat it godlike as a trifle of no swallow over my window should inter-
concernment. weave that thread or straw he carries in
The other terror that scares us from his bill into my web also. We pass for
self-trust is our consistency ; a reverence what we are. Character teaches above
for our past act or word, because the eyes our wills. Men imagine that they com-
of others have no other data for computing municate their virtue or vice only by
our orbit than our past acts, and we are overt actions, and do not see that virtue
loath to disappoint them. or vice emit a breath every moment.
But why should you keep your head There will be an agreement in what-
ever your shoulder ? Why drag about ever variety of actions, so they be each
this corpse of your memory, lest you con- honest and natural in their hour. For of
tradict somewhat you have stated in this one will, the actions will be harmonious,
or that public place ? Suppose you however unlike they seem. These varie-
should contradict yourself; what then? ties are lost sight of at a little distance, at
It seems to be a rule of wisdom never to a little height of thought. One tendency
rely on your memory alone, scarcely even unites them all. The voyage of the best
in acts of pure memory, but to bring the ship is a zigzag line of a hundred tacks,
past for judgment into the thousand-eyed See the line from a sufficient distance,
present, and live ever in a new day. In and it straightens itself to the average
your metaphysics you have denied per- tendency. Your genuine action will ex-
sonality to the Deity; yet when the de- plain itself, and will explain your other
vout motions of the soul come, yield to genuine actions. Your conformity ex-
them heart and life, though they should plains nothing. Act singly, and what you
clothe God with shape and colour. Leave have already done singly will justify you
your theory, as Joseph his coat in the how. Greatness appeals to the future,
hands of the harlot, and flee. If I can be firm enough to-day to do right,
A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin and scorn eyes, I must have done so
of little minds, adored by little statesmen much right before as to defend me now.
and philosophers and divines. With con- Be it how it will, do right now. Always
sistency a great soul has simply nothing scorn appearances, and you always may.
to do. He may as well concern himself The force of character is cumulative. All
with his shadow on the wall. Speak what the foregone days of virtue work their
you think now in hard words and to- health into this. What makes the
morrow speak what to-morrow thinks in majesty of the heroes of the senate and
hard words again, though it contradict the field, which so fills the imagination?
everything you said to-day. “ Ah, so you The consciousness of a train of great
shall be sure to be misunderstood ?” Is days and victories behind. They shed a
it so bad, then, to bo misunderstood ? united light on the advancing actor. He
I^thagojis was misunderstood, and So- is attended as by a visible escort of angels,
crates, and Jesus, and Luther, and Coper- That is it which throws thunder into
nicus, Galileo, and Newton, and Chatham's roice. and dignity into Wash-
SBLF-^RELIANCE,
liigton’s port, and America into Adams’s
eye. Honour is venerable to us because
it is no ephemeris. It is always ancient
virtue. We worship it to-day because it
is not of to-day. We love it and pay it
homage, because it is not a trap for our
love and homage, but is self-dependent,
self-derived, and therefore of an old im-
maculate pedigree, even if shown in a
young person.
I hope in these days we have heard the
last of conformity and consistency. Let
the words be gazetted and ridiculous
henceforward. Instead of the gong forj
dinner, let us hear a whistle from the
Spartan fife. Let us never bow and
apologise 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 me-
diocrity and squalid contentment of the
times, and hurl in the face of custom, and
trade, and office, the fact which is the
upshot of all history, that there is a great
responsible Thinker and Actor working
wherever a man works ; that a true man
belongs to other time or place, but is the
centre of things. Where he is, there is
nature. He measures you, and all men,
and all events. Ordinarily, everybody in
society reminds us of somewhat else, or
of some other person. Character,
reality, reminds you of nothing else; it
takes place of the whole creation. The
man must be so much, that he must make
all circumstances indifferent. Every true
man is a cause, a country, and an age ;
requires infinite spaces and numbers and
time fully to accomplish his design ; and
posterity seems to follow his steps as a
train of clients. A man Cmsar is bom,
and for ages after we have a Roman
Empire, Christ is born, and millions of
minds so grow and cleave to his genius,
that he is confounded with virtue and the
possible of man. An institution is the
lengthened shadow of one man ; as
Monachism, of the Hermit Antony; the
Reformation, of Luther; Quakerism, of
Fox; Methodism, of Wesley; Abolition,
of Clarkson. Scipio, Milton called “the
height of Rome ” ; and all history re-
solves itself very easily into the biography
of a few stout and earnest persons.
Let a man then know his worth, and
keep things under his feet. Let him not
peep or steal, or skulk up and down with
the air of a charity-boy, a bastard, or an
*9
interloper, in the world which i^xlsts 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 seems
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 pic-
ture waits for my verdict ; it is not to
command me, but I am to settle its claims
to praise. That popular fable of the sot
who was picked up dead drunk in the
street, carried to the duke’s house, washed
and dressed and laid in the duke’s bed,
and, on his waking, treated with all obse-
quious ceremony like the duke, and assured
that he had been insane, owes its popu-
larity to the fact that it symbolises so
well the state of man, who is in the world
a sort of sot, but now and then wakes up,
exercises his reason and finds himself a
true prince.
Our reading is mendicant and syco-
phantic. In history, our imagination
plays us false. Kingdom and lordship,
power and estate, are a gaudier vocabu-
lary 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 are the same. Why
all this deference to Alfred, and Scander-
beg, and Gustavus ? Suppose they were
virtuous ; did they wear out virtue ? At
great a stake depends on your private act
to-day, as followed their public and re-
nowned steps. When private men shall
act with original views, the lustre will be
transferred from the actions of kings to
those of gentlemen.
The world has been instructed by its
kings, who have so magnetised the eyes
of nations. It has been taught by this
colossal symbol the mutual reverence that
is duo from man to man. The joyful
loyalty with which men have everywhere
suffered, the king, the noble, or the great
proprietor to walk among them by a law
of his own, make his own scale of men
and things and reverse theirs, pay for
benefits not with money but with honour,
and represent the law in his person, was
the hieroglyphic by which they obscurely
signified their consciousness of their own
right and comeliness, the right of every
man.
The magnetism wnfch all ori^in'kl action
exerts is explained wbea ws *^uire tbo
2 ')
ESSAYS.
reason of self- trust. Who is the Trustee ?
What is the aboriginal Self, on which a
universal reliance may be grounded ?
What is the nature and power of that
science-baffling star, without parallax,
without calculable elements, which shoots
a ray of beauty even into trivial and im-
pure actions, if the least mark of inde-
pendence appear ? The inquiry leads us
to that source, at once the essence of
genius, of virtue, and of life, which we^
call Spontaneity or Instinct. We denote
this primary wisdom as Intuition, whilst
all later teachings are tuitions. In that
deep fo.ce, the last fact behind which
analysis cannot go, all things find their
common origin. For, the sense of being
which in calm hours rises, wo know not
how, in the soul, is not diverse from
things, from space, from light, from time,
from man, but one with them, and pro-
ceeds obviously from the same source
whence their life and being also proceed.
We first share the life by which things
exist, and afterwards see them as appear-
ances in nature, and forget that we have
shared their cause. Here is the fountain
of action and of thought. Here are the
lungs of tliat inspiration which giveth
man wisdom, and which cannot be denied
without impiety and atheism. We lie in
the lap of immense intelligence, which
makes us receivers of its truth and organs
of its activity. When we discern justice,
when we discern truth, we do nothing of
ourselves, but allow a passage to its
beams. If we ask whence this comes, if
we seek to pry into the soul that causes,
all philosophy is at fault. Its presence or
its absence is all we can affirm. Every
man discriminates between the voluntary
acts of his mind, and his involuntaiy per-
ceptions, and knows that to his in-
voluntary perceptions a perfect faith is
due. He may err in the expression of
them, but he knows that these things are
80, 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 con-
tradict as readily the statement of per-
ceptions as of opinions, or rather much
more readily ; for, they do not distinguish
between perception and notion. They
fancy that I choose to see this or that
thing. But perception is not whimsical,
but fatal. If I see a trait, my children
will see U after me, and in course of time,
all maotfind— although it may chance
that no one has seen it before me. For
my perception of it is as much a fact as
the sun.
The relations of the soul to the divine
spirit are so pure, that it is profane to seek
to interpose helps. It must be that when
God spoaketh he should communicate,
not one thing, but all things ; should fill
the world with bis voice ; should scaiter
forth ligl^, 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 pre-
sent hour. All things are made sacred by
relation to it — one as much as another.
All things are dissolved to their centre by
their cause, and, in the universal miracle,
pretty and particular miracles disappear.
If, therefore, a man claims to know and
speak of God, and carries you backward to
the phraseology of some old mouldered
nation in another country, in another
world, believe him not. Is the acorn
better than the oak which is its fulness
and completion ? Is the parent better
than the child into whom he has cast his
ripened being ? Whence, then, this wor-
ship of the past ? The centuries are con-
spirators against the sanity and authority
of the soul. Time and space are but phy-
siological colours which the eye makes,
but the soul is light ; where it is, is day ;
where it was, is night ; and history is an
impertinence and an injury, if it be any-
thing more than a cheerful apologue or
parable of my being and becoming.
Man is timid and apologetic ; he is no
longer upright ; he dares not say “ I
think, I am,'’ but quotes some saint or
sage. He is ashamed before the blade of
grass or the blowing rose. These roses
under my window make no reference to
former roses or to better ones ; they are
for what they are ; they exist with God to-
day. There is no time to them. There ifl
simply the rose ; it is perfect in every mo-
ment of its existence. Before a leai-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 aU
moments alike. But man postpones or
remembers ; he does not live in the pre-
sent, but with reverted eye laments the
past, or, heedless of the riches that sur-
round him, stands on tiptoe to foresee the
future. He cannot bo happy and strong
until he too lives with nature in the pre-
sent, above time.
SELF-RELIANCE.
SI
This should be plain enough. Yet see
what strong intellects dare not hear God
himself, unless he speak the phraseology
of I know not what David, or Jeremiah, or
Paul. We shall not always set so great a
price on a few texts, on a few lives. We
are like children who repeat by rote the
sentences of grandames and tutors, and,
AS they grow older, of the men of talents
and character they chance to see— painfully
recollecting the exact words they spoke ;
afterwards, when they come into the point
of view which those had who uttered these
sayings, they understand them, and are
willing to let the words go; for, at any
time, they can use words as good when
occasion comes. If we live truly, we
shall see truly. It is as easy for the strong
man to be strong, as it is for the weak to
be weak. When we have new perception,
we shall gladly disburden the memory of
its hoarded treasures as old rubbish.
When a man lives with God, his voice
shall be as sweet as the murmur of the
brook and the rustle of the corn.
And now at last the highest truth on this
subject remains unsaid ; probably cannot
bo said ; for all that we say is the far-off
remembering of the intuition. 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 aiid new. It shall exclude
example and experience. You take the
way from man, not to man. All persons
that ever existed are its forgotten minis-
ters. Fear and hope arc alike beneath it.
There is somewhat low even in hope. In
the hour of vision, there is nothing that
can be called gratitude, nor properly joy.
The soul raised over passion beholds
identity and eternal causation, perceives
the self-existence of Truth and Right, and
calms itself with knowing that all things
go well. Vast spaces of nature, the
Atlantic Ocean, the South Sea — long in-
tervals of time, years, centuries — are of
no account. This which I think and feel
underlay every former slate of life and
circumstances, as it does underlie my
present, and what is called life, and what
i ; called death.
Life only avails, not the having lived.
Power ceases in the instant of repose;
it resides in the moment of transition
from 8 past to a new state, in the
shooting of the gulf, in the darting to an
aim. This one fact the world hates, that
the soul becomes; for that forever degrades
the past, turns all riches to poverty, all
reputation to a shame, confounds the
saint with the rogue, shoves Jesus and
Judas equally aside. Why, then, do we
prate of self-reliance ? Inasmuch as the
soul is present, there will be power not
confident but agent. To talk of reliance
is a poor external way of speaking. Speak
rather of that which relies, because it
works and is. Who has more obedience
than I masters me, though he should not
raise his finger. Round him I must re-
volve by the gravitation of spirits. We
fancy it rhetoric, when we speak of
eminent virtue. We do not yet see that
virtue is Height, and that a man or a
company of men, plastic and permeable
to principles, by the law of natus' Jiust
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 enters into all lower forma. All
things real are so by so much virtue as
they contain. Commerce, husbandry,
hunting, whaling, war, eloquence, por-
sonal weight, are somewhat, and engage
my respect as examples of its presence
and impure action. I see the same law
working in nature for conservation and
growth. Power is in nature the essential
measure of right. Nature suffers nothing
to remain in her kingdoms which cannot
help itself. The genesis and maturation
of a planet, its poise and orbit, the bended
I tree recovering itself from the strong
wind, the vital resources of every animal
and vegetable, are demonstrations of the
self-sufficing, and therefore self-relying
soul.
Thus all concentrates : let us not rove ;
let us sit at home with the cause. Let us
stun and astonish the intruding rabble of
men, and books, and institutions, by a
simple declaration of the divine fact.
Bid the invaders take the shoes from off
their feet, for God is here within. Let
our simplicity judge them, and our docility
to our own law demonstrate the poverty
of nature and fortune beside our native
riches.
But now we are a mob. Man does not
stand in awe of man, nor is his gdbius ad-
monished to stay at home. Ip put itself in
tf
ESSAYS.
communication with the internal ocean,
but it goes abroad to beg a cup of water
of the urns of other men. We must go
alone. I like the silent church before the
service begins, better than any preaching.
How far off, how cool, how chaste the
persons look, begirt each one with a
precinct of sanctuary ! So let v:s always
sit. Why should we assume the faults of
our friend, or wife, or father, or child,
because they sit around our hearth, or are
said to have the same blood ? All men
have my blood, and I have all men’s.
Not for that will I adopt their petulance
or folly, even to the extent of being
ashamed of it. But your isolation must
not be mechanical, but spiritual, that is,
must be elevation, At times the whole
world seem? to be in conspiracy to
importune you with emphatic trifles.
Friend, client, child, sickness, fear, want,
charity, all knock at once at thy closet
door, and say, “ Come out unto us.” But
keep thy state ; come not into their con-
fusion. The power men possess to annoy
me, I give them by a weak curiosity. No
man can come near me but through my
act. ” What we love that we have, but by
desire we bereave ourselves of the love.”
If we cannot at once rise to the sancti-
ties of obedience and faith, let us at least
resist our temptations; let us enter into
the state of war, and wake Thor and
Woden, courage and constancy in our
Saxon breasts. This is to be done in our
smooth times by speaking the truth.
Check this lying hospitality and lying
affection. Live no longer to the expecta-
tion of these deceived and deceiving
people with whom we converse. Say to
them, O father, O mother, O wife, O
brother, O friend, I have lived with you
after appearances hitherto. Henceforward
I am the Be it known unto you
that henceforward I obey no law less than
the eternal law. I will have no covenants
but proximities. I shall endeavour to
nourish my parents, to support my family,
to be the chaste husband of one wife —
but these relations I must fill after a new
and unprecedented way. I appeal from
your customs. I must be myself. I can-
not break myself any longer for you, or
you. If you can love me for what I am,
we shall be the happier. If you cannot,
I will still seek to deserve that you
should. I will not hide my tastes or aver-
sions. I will so trust that what is deep is
holy, that I will do strongly before the sun
and mofa whatever inly rejoices me, and
the heart appoints. If you are noble, 1 '
will love you ; if you are not, I will not
hurt you and myself by hypocritical atten-
tions. If you are true, but not in the
same truth with me, cleave to your com-
panions ; I will seek my own. I do this
not selfishly, but humbly and truly. It
is alike your interest and mine, and all
men’s, however long we have dwelt in
lies, to live in truth. Does this sound
harsh to-day ? You will soon love what
is dictated by your nature as well as
mine, and, if we follow the truth, it will
bring us out safe at last. But so you may
give these friends pain. Yes, but I cannot
sell my liberty and my power, to save
their sensibility. Besides, all persons
have their moments of reason, when they
look out into the region of absolute truth ,
then will they justify me, and do the same
thing.
The populace think that your rejection
of popular standards is a rejection of all
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
relations to father, mother, cousin, neigh-
bour, town, cat, and dog ; whether any of
these can upbraid you, But I may also
neglect this reflex standard, and absolve
me to myself. I have my own stern
claims and perfect circle. It denies the
name of duty to many offices that are
called duties. But if I can discharge its
debts, it enables me to dispei;:7=. ^ith the
popular code. If anyone imagines that
this law is lax, let him keep its command-
ment one day.
And truly it demands something god-
like in him who has cast off the common
motives of humanity, and has ventured to
trust himself for a taskmaster. High be
his heart, faithful his will, clear his sight,
that he may in good earnest be doctrine,
society, law, to himself, that a simple
purpose may be to him as strong as iron
necessity is to others !
If any man consider the present aspects
of what is called by distinction society, he
will see the need of these ethics. The
sinew and heart of man seem to be drawn
out, and we are become timorous, 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 persons. We want
SBLP-RBLIANCB,
men and women who shall renovate life
and our social state, but we see that most
natures are insolvent, cannot satisfy their
own wants, have an ambition out of all
proportion to their practical force, and do
lean and beg day and night continually.
Oujr housekeeping is mendicant, our
arts, our occupations, our marriages, our
religion, we have not chosen, but society
has chosen for us. We are parlour sob
diers. We shun the rugged battle of fate,
where strength is born.
If our young men miscarry in their first
enterprises, they lose all heart. If the
young merchant fails, men say he is
ruined. If the finest genius studies at
one of our colleges, and is not installed
in an office within one year afterwards in
the cities or suburbs of Boston or New
York, it seems to his friends and to him-
self that he is right in being disheartened,
and in complaining the rest of his life.
A sturdy lad from New Hampshire or
Vermont, who in turn tries all the profes-
sions, who teams it, farms it, peddles^
keeps a school, preaches, edits a news-
paper, 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 de-
tach themselves ; that with the exercise of
sell-tiust, new powers shall appear ; that
a man is the word made flesh, born to
shed healing to the nations, that he should
be ashamed of our compassion, and that
the moment he acts from himself, tossing
the laws, tlie books, idolatries, and cus-
toms out of the window, we pity him no
more, but thank and revere him — and
that teacher shall restore the life of man
to splendour, 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 re-
ligion ; in their education ; in their pur-
suits ; their modes of living, their associa-
tion ; in their property ; in their specula-
tive views.
I. In what prayers do men allow them-
selves I That which they call a holy
office is not so much as brave and manly.
Prayer looks abroad and asks for some
foreign addition to come through some
23
foreign virtue, and loses itself in endless
mazes of natural and supernatural, and
mediatorial and miraculous. Prayer that
craves a particular commodity— anything
less than all good— is vicious. Prayer is
the contemplation of the facts of life from
the highest point of view. It is a soliloqu3
of a beholding 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 con-
sciousness. As soon as the man is at
one with God, he will not beg. He will
then see prayer in all action. The prayer
of the farmer kneeling in his field to weed
it, the prayer of the rower kneeling with
the stroke of his oar, are true prayers
heard throughout nature though for cheap
I ends. Caratach, in Fletcher’s Bonduca,
when admonished to inquire the mind of
the god Audate, replies —
“ His hidden meaning lies in our endeavoort;
Our valours are our best gods.”
Another sort of false prayers are our
regrets. Discontent is the want of self-
reliance: it is infirmity of will. Regret
calamities, if you can thereby help the
sufferer; if not, attend your own work,
and already the evil begins to be repaired.
Our sympathy is just as base. We come
to them who weep foolishly, and sit down
and cry for company, instead of impart-
ing to them truth and hee.lth in rough
electric shocks, putting them once more
in communication with their own reason.
The secret of fortune is joy in our hands.
Welcome evermore to gods and men is
the self-helping man. For him all doors
are flung wide : him all tongues greet, all
honours crown, all eyes follow with de-
sire. Our love goes out to him and em-
braces him, because he did not need it.
We solicitously and apologetically caress
and celebrate him, because he held on his
way and scorned our disapprobation.
The gods love him because men hated
him. ” To the persevering mortal,” said
Zoroaster, ” the blessed Immortals aro
swift.”
As men’s prayers are a disease of tha
will, so are their creeds a disease of the
intellect. They say with those foolish
Israelites, ” Let not God speak to us, lest
we die. Speak thou, speak any man with
us, and we will obey.” Everywhere I am
hindered of meeting God in my brother,
because he has shut his own temr^ doors,
emd recites fables merely of bis brother’s,
or his brother’s brother’s Go(|, Every
ESSAYS.
*4
new mind is a new classification. If it
prove a mind of uncommon Eu:tivity and
power, a Locke, a Lavoisier, a Hutton, a
Bentham, a Fourier, it imposes its classi-
fication on other men, and lol a new
system. In proportion to the depth of
the thought, and so to the number of the
objects it touches and brings within reach
of the pupil, is his complacency. But
chiefly is this apparent in creeds and
churches, which are also classifications of
some powerful mind acting on the ele-
mental thought of duty, and man’s rela-
tion to the Highest. Such is Calvinism,
Quakerism, Swedenborgism. The pupil
takes the same delight in subordinating
everything to the new terminology, as a
girl who has just learned botany in seeing
a new earth and new seasons thereby.
It will happen for a time, that the pupil
will find his intellectual power has grown
by the study of his master’s mind. But
in all unbalanced minds, the classification
is idolised, passes for the end, and not
for a speedily exhaustible means, so that
the walls of the system blend to their eye
in the remote horizon with the walls of
the universe ; the luminaries of heaven
seem to them hung on the arch their
master built. They cannot imagine how
you aliens have any right to see— how you
Ccin see ; “It must be somehow that you
stole the light from us.” They do not
yet perceive, that light, unsystematic, in-
domitable, will break into any cabin, even
into theirs. Let them chirp awhile and
call it their own. If they are honest and
do well, presently their neat new pinfold
will be too strait and low, will crack, will
lean, will rot and vanish, and the immortal
light, all young and joyful, million-orbed,
million-coloured, will beam over the uni-
verse as on the first morning,
2. It is for want of self-culture that the
supeistition of Travelling, whose idols
are Italy, England, Egypt, retains its
fascination for all educated Americans.
They who made England, Italy, or Greece
venerable in the imagination did so by
sticking fast where they were, like an axis
of the earth. In manly hours, we feel
that duty is our place. The soul is no
t^avelle1^* the wise man stays at home,
and when his necessities, his duties, on
any occasion call him from his house, or
into foreign lands, he is at home still, and
shall make men sensible by the expression
of his countenance, that he goes the mis-
sionary^f wisdom and virtue, and visits |
cities and men like a sovereigOi and not j
like an interloper or a yalet« '
I have no churlish objection to the cir*
cumnavigation of the globe, for the pur*
poses of art, of study, and benevolence,
so that the man is first domesticated, or
does not go abroad with the hope of find-
ing somewhat greater than he knows.
He who travels to bo 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
Falmyra, his will and mind have become
old and dilapidated as they. He carries
ruins to ruins.
Travelling is a fool’s paradise. Our
first journeys discover to us the indiffer-
ence of places. At home I dream that at
Naples, at Rome, I can bo intoxicated
with beauty, and lose my sadness. I pack
my trunk, embrace my friends, embark on
the sea, and at last wake up in Naples,
and there beside me is the stern fact, the
sad self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled
from. I seek the Vatican, and the palaces.
I affect to be intoxicated with sights and
suggestions, but I am not intoxicated#
My giant goes with me wherever I go.
3. But the rage of travelling is a symp-
tom of a deeper uusoundness affecting
the whole intellectual action. The intel-
lect is vagabond, and our system of
education fosters restlessness. Our minds
travel when our bodies are forced to stay
at home. We imitate ; and what is imita-
tion but the travelling of the mind ? Our
houses are built with foreign taste ; out
shelves are garnished with foreign orna-
ments ; our opinions, our tastes, ouf
faculties, lean, and follow the Past and
the Distant, The soul created the arts
wherever they have flourished. It was in
bis own mind that the artist sought his
model. It was an application of his own
thought to the thing to be done and the
conditions to be observed. And why need
we copy the Doric or tlie Gothic model ?
Beauty, convenience, grandeur of thought,
and quaint expression are as near to ua
as to any, and if the American artist will
study with hope and love the precise
thing to be done by him, considering the
climate, the soil, the length of the day,
the wants of the people, the habit and
form of the government, he will create a
house in which all these will find them-
selves fitted, and taste and sentiment will
be satisfied also.
Insist on yourself ; never imitate. Your
own gift you can present every moment
with the cumulative force of a whole life’s
cultivation ; but of the adopted talent of
'UlQther, you have only an extempgraoeoHib
SELF-RELIANCE.
as
hair possession. That which each can do
best, none but his Maker can teach him.
No man yet knows what it is, nor can,
till that person has exhibited it. Where
is the master who could have taught
Shakespeare ? Where is the master who
could have instructed Franklin, or Wash-
ington, or Bacon, or Newton ? Every
great man is a unique. The Scipionism
of Scipio is precisely that part he could
not borrow. Shakespeare will never be
made by the study of Shakespeare, Do
that which is assigned you, and you can-
not hope too much or dare too much.
There is at this moment for you an utter-
ance brave and grand as that of the
colossal chisel of Phidias, or trowel of
the Egyptians, or the pen of Moses, or
Dante, but different from all these. Not
possibly will the soul all rich, all eloquent,
with thousand-cloven tongue, deign to re-
peat itself ; but if you can hear what these
patriarchs say, surely you can reply to
them in the same pitch of voice ; for tlie
ear and the tongue are two organs of one
nature. Abide in the siini)le and noble
regions of tliy life, obey tliy heart, and
thou shalt reproduce the Forcworld again.
4. As our Religion, our Education, our
Art look abroad, so does our spirit of
society. All men plume themselves on
the improvement of society, and no man
Improves.
Society never advances. It recedes as
fast on one side as it gains on the other.
It undeigoes continual changes; it is bar-
barous, it is civilised, it is Christianised,
it is rich, it is scientific; but this change
is not amelioration. For everything that
is given, something is taken. Society ac-
quires ne%; arts, and loses old instincts.
What a contrast betw^een the wcll-clad,
reading, writing, thinking American, with
a watch, a pencil, and a bill of exchange
in his pocket, and the naked New-
Zealander, whose property is a club, a
spear, a mat, and an undivided twentieth
of a shed to sleep under I But compare
the health of the two men, and you shall
see that the white man has lost his abori-
ginal 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 civilised man has built a coach,
out has lost tlie use of his feet. He is
Bupported on crutches; but lacks so much
Bupport of muscle. He has a fine Geneva
watch, but he fails of the skill to tell the
hour by the sun. A Greenwich nautical
almanac he has, and so being sure of the
information when he wants it, the man in
the street does not know a star in the sky.
The solstice he does not observe ; the
equinox he knows as little ; and the whole
bright calendar of the year is without a
dial in his mind. His note-books impair
his memory; his libraries overload his
wit; the insurance office increases the
number of accidents ; and it may be a
question whether machinery dees not en-
cumber ; whether we have not lost by
refinement some energy, by a Christianity
intrenched in establishments and forms,
some vigour of wild virtue. For every
Stoic was a Stoic; but in Christendom
where is the Christian ?
There is no more deviation in the moral
standard than in the standard of height or
bulk. No greater men are now than ever
were. A singular equality may be observed
between the great men of the first and of
the last ages ; nor can all the science, art,
religion, and philosophy of the nineteenth
century avail to educate greater men than
Plutarch’s heroes, three or four and twenty
centuries ago. Not in time is the race
progressive. Phocion, Socrates, Anaxa-
goras, Diogenes, are great men; but they
leave no class. He who is really of their
class will not be called by their name, but
will be his own man, and, in his turn, the
founder of a sect. The arts and inventions
of each period are only its costume, and
do not invigorate men. The harm of the
improved machinery may compensate its
good. Hudson and Behring accomplished
so much in their fishing-hoats, as to
astonish Parry and Franklin, vhose equip-
ment exhausted the resources of science
and art. Galileo, with an opera-glass,
discovered a more splendid series of
celestial phenomena than anyone since.
Columbus found the New World in an
undecked boat. It is curious to see the
periodical disuse and perishing of means
and machinery, which were introduced
with loud laudation a few years or cen-
turies before. The great genius returns
to essential man. We reckoned the im-
provements of the art of war among the
triumphs of science, snW yet Napoleon
contiuered Europe by tne bivouac, which
consisted of falling back on naked valour,
and disencumbering it of all aids. Tha
Emperor held it impossible to make a
perfect army, says Las Casas, “without
abolishing our arms, magazines^commii-
saries, and carriages, until, in iifltation of
the Roman custom, the soldier should
26
ESSAYS,
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 com-
posed does not. The same particle does
not rise from the valley to the ridge. Its
unity is only phenomenal. The persons
who make up a nation to-day, next year
die, and their experience with them.
And so the reliance on Property, in-
cluding the reliance on governments
which protect it, is the want of self-re-
liance. Men have looked away from
themselves and at things so long, that
they have come to esteem the religious,
learned, and civil institutions as guards of
property, and they deprecate assaults on
these, because they feel them to be
assaults on property. They measure their
esteem of each other by what each has,
and not by what each is. But a cultivated
man becomes ashamed of his property,
out of new respect for his nature. Espe-
cially he hates what he has, if he see that
it is accidental — came to him by inheri-
tance, or gift, or crime ; then he feels that
it is not having ; it does not belong to
him, has no root in him, and merely lies
there, because no revolution or no robber
takes it away. But that which a man is
does always by necessity acquire, and
what the man acquires is living property,
which does not wait the beck of rulers, or
mobs, or revolutions, or fire, or storm, or
bankruptcies, but perpetually renews itself
wherever the man breathes. ” Thy lot or
portion of life,” said the Caliph Ali, *' is
seeking after thee; therefore be at rest
from seeking after it,” Our dependence
on these foreign goods leads us to our
slavish respect for numbers. The political
parties meet in numerous conventions;
the greater the concourse, and with each
l«w uproar of announcement. The dele-
gation from Essex I The Democrats from
New Hampshire I The Whigs of Maine f
the young patriot feels himself stronger
than before by a new thousand of eyes
and arms. In like manner the reformers
summon conventions, and vote and
resolve in multitude. Not so, O friends,
will the God deign to enter and inhabit
you, but by a method precisely the
reverse. It is only as a man puts off all
foreign support, and stands alone, that I
see him to be strong and to prevail. Ho
is weaker by every recruit to his banner.
Is not a man better than a town ? Ask
nothing of men, and in the endless muta-
tion, thou only firm column must presently
appear the upholder of all that surrounds
thee. He who knows that power is inborn,
that he is weak because he has looked for
good out of him and elsewhere, and so
perceiving, throws himself unhesitatingly
on his thought, instantly rights himselt,
stands in the erect position, commands
his limbs, works miracles; just as a man
who stands on his feet is stronger than a
man who stands on his head.
So use all that is called Fortune. Moat
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 Will work and
acquire, and thou hast chained the wheel
of Chance, and shalt sit hereafter out of
fear from her rotations. A political victory,
a rise of rents, the recovery of your sick,
or the return of your absent friend, or
some other favourable event, raises your
spirits, and you think good days are pre-
paring 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 wiags 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 hallSf
A makeweight flying to the void,
Suppl^ental asteroid,
Or compensatory spark,
Shoot! across the neutral Dark.
Man’s the elm, and Wealth the vino;
Staunch and strong the tendrils twine
Though the frail ringlets thee deceive,
None from its stock thskt vine can reave
Fear not, then, though 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 1 it rushes thee to meet ;
And ali that Nature made thy own,
Floating in air or pent in stone.
Will rive the bills and swim the sea,
Andf like thy shadow, follow thee.
COMPENSATION,
Ever since I was a boy, I have wished to
write a discourse on Compensation: for
it seemed to me when 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 character, the
nature and endowment of all men. It
seemed to me, also, that in it might be
shown men a ray of divinity, the present
action of the soul of this world, clean
from all vestige of tradition, and so the
heart of man might be bathed by an in-
undation of eternal love, conversing with
that which he knows was always and
always must be, because it really is now.
It appeared, moreover, that if this doc-
trine could be stated in terms with any
resemblance to those bright intuitions in
which this truth is sometimes revealed to
us, it would be a star in many dark hours
and crooked passages in our journey that
would not suffer us to lose our way.
I was lately confirmed in these desires
by hearing a sermon at church. The
preacher, a man esteemed for his ortho-
doxy, unfolded in the ordinary manner
the doctrine of the Last Judgment. He
assumed that judgment is not executed in
this world ; that the wicked are successful ;
that the good are miserable ; and then
urged from reason and from Scripture a
compensation to be made to both parties
in the next life. No offence appeared to
be taken by the congregation at this doc-
trine. 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 teach-
ing ? What did the preacher mean by
saying that the good are miserable in the
present life ? Was it that houses and
lands, offices, wine, horses, dress, luxury,
are had by unprincipled men, whilst the
saints are poor and despised ; and that a
compensation is to bo made to these last
hereafter, by giving them the like gratifi-
cations another day — bank-stock and
doubloons, venison and champagne ?
This must be the compensation intended ;
for what else ? Is it that they are to have
leave to pray and praise ? to love and
serve men ? Why tliat they f an do now.
The legitimate inference the disciple
27
would draw was : “We are to ha\ 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 ; wa
would sin now, if we could ; not being
successful, we expect our revenge to-
morrow.”
The fallacy lay in the immense con-
cession that the bad are successful ; that
justice is not done now. The blindness
of the preacher consisted in deferring to
the base estimate of the market of #vhat
constitutes a manly success, instead of
confronting and convicting the world from
the truth ; announcing the presence of the
soul ; the omnipotence of the will : and
so establishing the standard of good and
ill, of success and falsehood.
I find a similar base tone in the popular
religious works of the day, and the same
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 prin-
ciple, over the superstitions it has dis-
placed. But men are better than this
theology. Their daily life gives it the lie.
Every ingenuous and aspiring soul leaves
the doctrine behind him in his own ex-
perience ; and all men feel sometimes the
felsehood which they cannot demonstrate.
For men are wiser than they know. That
I which they hear in schools and pulpits with-
out afterthought, if said in conversation,
i would probably be questioned in silence.
! If a man dogmatise in a mixed company
on Providence and the divine laws, he is
answered by a silence which conveys well
enough to an observer the dissatisfaction
of the hearer, but his incapacity to make
his own statement.
I shall attempt in this and the following
chapter to record some facts that indicate
the path of the law of Compensation,
happy beyond my expectation, if I shall
truly draw the smallest arc of this
circle.
Polarity, or action and reaction, we
meet in every part of nature ; in darkness
and light ; in heat and cold ; in the ebb
and flow of waters ; in male and female ;
in the inspiration and expiration of plants
and animals ; in the equation of quantity
and quality in the 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 centri-
petal gravity; in electricity, galvanism,
and chemical affinity. Superinduce mag-
netism 8t one end of a needles the oppo-
88
ESSAYS.
•ite 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 it whole ;
as, spirit, matter ; man, woman ; odd,
even; subjective, objective; in, out;
upper, under ; motion, rest ; yea, nay.
Whilst the world is thus dual, so is
every one of its parts. The entire system
of things gets represented in every par-
ticle, There is somewhat that resembles
the ebb and flow of the sea, day and
night, man and woman, in a single needle
of the pine, in a kernel of corn, in each
individual of every animal tribe. The
reaction, so grand in the elements, is
repeated within these small boundaries.
For example, in the animal kingdom the
physiologist has observed that no crea-
tures are favourites, but a certain com-
pensation 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
extremitiei are cut sliort.
The theory of the mechanic forces is
another example. What we gain in power
is lost in time; and the converse. The
periodic or compensating errors of the
planets is another instance. The influ-
ences of climate and soil in political
history are another. The cold climate in-
vigorates. The barren soil does not breed
fevers, crocodiles, tigers, or scorpions.
The same dualism underlies the nature
and condition of man. Every excess
causes a defect ; every defect, an excess.
Every sweet hath its sour ; every evil, its
good. Every faculty which is a receiver
of pleasure has an equal penalty put on
its abuse. It is to answer for its modera-
tion with its life. For every grain of wit
there is a grain of folly. For everything
you have missed, you have gained some-
thing else ; and for everything you gain,
you lose something. If riches increase,
they are increased that use them. If the
gatherer gathers too much, nature takes
out of the man what she puts into his
chest; swells the estate, but kills the
owner. Nature hates monopolies and
exceptions. The waves of the sea do
not more speedily seek a level from their
loftiest tossing, than the varieties of con-
dition tend to equalise themselves. There
is alwaysC^some levelling circumstance
that puts down the overbearing, the
strong, th» rich, the fortunate, substan-
tially on the same ground with all others.
Is a man too strong and fierce for society,
and by temper and position a bad citizen
— a morose ruffian, with a dash of the
pirate in him — nature sends him a troop
of pretty sons and daughters, who are
getting along in the dame’s classes at the
.village school, and love and fear for them
smooths his grim scowl to courtesy. Thus
she contrives to intenerate the granite and
felspar, takes the boar out and puts the
lamb in, and keeps her balance true.
The farmer imagines power and place
are fine things. But the President has
paid dear for his White House. It has
commonly cost him all his peace, and
the best of his manly attributes. To pre-
serve for a short time so conspicuous an
appearance before the world, he is con-
tent to eat dust before the real masters
who stand erect behind the throne. Or,
do men desire the more substantial and
permanent grandeur of genius ? Neither
has this an immunity. He who by force
of will or of thought is great, and over-
looks thousands, has the charges of that
eminence. With every influx of light
comes new danger. Has he light ? he
must bear witness to the light, and always
outnm that sympathy that gives him such
keen satisfaction, by his fidelity to new
revelations of the incessant soul. Ho
must hate father and mother, wife and
child. Has he all that that world loves
and admires and covets? — ho must cast
behind him their admiration, and afflict
them by faithfulness to his tiuth, and
become a byword and a hissing.
This law writes the laws of cities and
nations. It is in vain to build or plot or
combine against it. Things refuse to be
mismanaged long. Res nolunt dm male
administrari. 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 safe. If you tax too
high, the revenue will yield nothing. If
you make the criminal code sanguinary,
juries will not convict. If the law is too
mild, private vengeance comes in. If
the government is a terrific democracy,
the pressure is resisted by an overcharge
of energy in the citizen, and life glows
with a fiercer flame. The true life and
satisfactions of man seem to elude tha
utmost rigours or felicities of condition,
and to establish themselves with great
indifferency under all varieties of circum-
stances. Under all governments the in-
fluence of character remains the same—
ia Turkey and in New England about
COMPENSATION.
■like. Under the primeval despots of
Egypt, history honestly confesses that
man must have been as free as culture
could make him.
These appearances indicate the fact
that the universe is represented in every
one of its particles. Everything in nature
contains all the powers of nature. Every-
thing is made of one hidden stufif ; as the
naturalist sees one type under every meta-
morphosis, and regards a horse as a run-
ning 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, fur-
therances, 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, enemies,
its course and its end. And each one
must somehow accommodate the whole
man, and recite all his destiny.
The world globes itself in a drop of
dew. The microscope cannot find the
animalcule which is less perfect for being
little. Eyes, ears, taste, smell, motion,
resistance, appetite, and organs of 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 omnipresence is, that
God reappears with all his parts in every
moss and cobweb. The value of the uni-
verse 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 is not postponed, A perfect equity
adjusts its b^ance in all parts of life,
ol Kv^ot A165 uci ci/7nVrovort — The dice
of God are always loaded. The world
looks like a multiplication-table or a
mathematical equation, which, turn it how
you will, balances itself. Take what figure
you will, its exact value, nor more, nor
less still returns to you. Every secret is
told every crime is punished, every virtue
rewarded, every wrong redressed, in |
silence and certainty. What we call retri- 1
bution is the universal necessity by which
the whole appears wherever a part ap-
pears. If you see smoke, there must be
*9
fire. If you see a hand or a limb, you
know that the trunk to which irt belongs is
there behind.
Every act rewards itself, or, in other
words, integrates itself, in a twofold man-
ner ; first, in the thing, or in real nature ;
and secondly, in the circumstance, or in
apparent nature. Men call the circum-
stance the retribution. The casual retri-
bution is in the thing, and is seen by the
soul. The retribution in the circumstance
is seen by the understanding ; it is in-
separable from the thing, but is often
spread over a long time, and so does not
become distinct until after many years.
The specific stripes may follow late after
the offence, but they follow because they
accompany it. Crime and punishment
grow out of one stem. Punishment is a
fruit that unsuspected ripens within the
flower of the pleasure which concealed it
Cause and effect, means and ends, seed
and fruit, cannot be severed ; for the effect
always blooms in the cause, the end pre-
exists in the means, the fruit in the seed;
Whilst thus the world will be whole,
and refuses to be disparted, we seek to
act partially, to sunder, to appropriate ;
for example, to gratify the senses, we
sever the pleasure of the senses from the
needs of the character. The ingenuity of
man has always been dedicated to the
solution of one problem — how to detach
the sensual sweet, the sensual strong, the
sensual bright, &c., from the moral sweet,
the moral deep, the moral fair ; that is,
again, to contrive to cut clean off this
upper surface so thin as to leave it bottom-
less ; 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 end
of virtue ; the body would have the power
over things to its own ends.
The soul strives amain to live and work
through all things. It would be the only
fact. All things shall be added unto it —
power, pleasure, knowledge, beauty. The
particular man aims to be somebody ; to
set up for himself ; to truck and higgle for
a private good ; and, in particulars, to
ride, that he may ride ; to dress, that he
may be dressed ; to eat, that he may eat ;
and to govern, that he may be seen. Men
seek to be great ; they would have offices,
wealth, power, and tame; They think that
to be great is to possess on% side ot
nature, the sweet without the other side^
the bitter, •
30 ESSAYS.
This dividing and detaching is steadily A plain confession of the in-working of
counteracted. Up to this day, it must be the All, and of its mo/al aim. The Indian
owned, no projector has had the smallest mythology ends in the same ethics ; and
success. The parted water re-unites be- it would seem impossible for any fable to
hind our hand. Pleasure is taken out of be invented and get any currency which
pleasant things, profit out of profitable was not moral, Aurora forgot to ask
things, power out of strong things, as soon youth for her lover, and though Tithonut
as we seek to separate them from the whole, is immortal, he is old. Achilles is not
We can no more halve things and get the quite invulnerable ; the sacred waters did
sensual good, by itself, than we can get an not wash the heel by which Thetis held
inside that shall have no outside, or a light him. ^ Siegfried, in the Nibelungen, is not
without a shadow. “ Drive out nature with quite immortal, for a leaf fell on his back
a fork, she comes running back.” whilst he was bathing in the dragon’s
Life invests itself with inevitable con- blood, and that spot which it covered is
ditions, which the unwise seek to dodge, mortal. And so it must be. There is a
which one and another brags that he does crack in everything God has made. It
not know ; that they do not touch him ; would seem, there is always this vindic-
but the brag is on his lips, the conditions five circumstance stealing in at unawares,
are in his soul. If he escapes them in even into the wild poesy in which the
one part, they attack him in another more human fancy attempted to make bold
vital part. If he has escaped them in holiday, and to shake itself free of the old
form, and in the appearance, it is because laws — this back-stroke, this kick of the
he has resisted his life, and fled from gun, certifying that the law is fatal ; that
himself, and the retribution is so much iu nature nothing can be given, all things
death. So signal is the failure of all are sold.
attempts to make this separation of the This is that ancient doctrine of Nemesis,
good from the tax, that the experiment who keeps watch in the universe, and lets
would not be tried— since to try it is to offence go unchastised. The Furies,
be mad— but for the circumstance, that fbey said, are attendants on justice, and
when the disease began in the will, of If fhe sun in Heaven should transgress
rebellion and separation, the intellect is bis path, they would punish him. The
at once infected, so that the man ceases poets related that stone walls, and iron
to see God whole in each object, but is swords, and leathern thongs had an occult
able to see the sensual allurement of an sympathy with the wrongs of their owners ;
object, and not see the sensual hurt ; he that the belt which Ajax gave Hector
sees the mermaid’s head, but not the ^rugged the Trojan hero over the field at
dragon’s tail ; and thinks he can cut off the wheels of the car of Achilles, and the
that which he would have, from that sword which Hector gave Ajax was that
which he would not have. “How secret on whose point Ajax fell. They recorded,
art thou who dwellest in the highest that when the Thasians erected a statue
Heavens in silence, O thou only great to Theagenes, a victor in the games, one
God, sprinkling with an unwearied Pro- of his rivals went to it by night, and en-
vidence certain penal blindnesses upon deavoured to throw it down by repeated
such as have unbridled desires ! ”* blows, until at last he moved it from its
The human soul is true to these facts pedestal, and was crushed to death bo-
jn the painting of fable, of history, of law, neath its fall.
of proverbs, of conversation. It finds a ."^bis voice of fable has in it somewhat
tongue in literature unawares. Thus the divine. It came from thought above the
Greeks call Jupiter, Supreme Mind; but will of the writer. That is the best part
having traditionally ascribed to him many of each writer, which has nothing private
base actions, they involuntarily made I that which ho does not know ; that
amends to reason, by tying up the hands which flowed out of his constitution, and
of so bad a god. He is made as helpless *^ot from his too active invention ; that
as a king of England. Prometheus knows which in the study of a singlo artist you
one secret which Jove must bargain for; might not easily find, but in the study of
Minerva, another. He cannot get his own many, you would abstract as the spirit of
Ihunders ; Minerva keeps the key of them, them all. Phidias it is not, but the work
“Of all the gods, I only know the keys early Hellenic world, that
That ope the solid doors within whose vaults I would know. The name and circum*
His thui#iers sleep.” Stance of Phidias, however convenient for
* St. Augustine, Confeuions, B. 1. • history, embarrass when we come to tho
COMPENSATION.
Iulghest 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 voli-
tions of Phidias, of Dante, of Shakespeare,
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 absolute truth,
without qualification. Proverbs, like the
sacred books of each nation, are the sanc-
tuary of the intuitions. That which the
droning world, chained to appearances,
will not allow the realist to say in his own
words, it will suffer him to say in proverbs
without contradiction. And this law of
laws which the pulpit, the senate, and the
college deny, is hourly preached in all
markets and workshops by flights of pro-
verbs, whose teaching is as true and as
omnipresent as that of birds and flies.
All things are double, one against
anotlier. — Tit for tat; an eye for an eye ;
a tooth for a tooth ; blood for blood ; mea- !
sure for measure ; love for love. — Give and
it shall be given you. — He that watereth
shall be watered himself. — What will you
have ? quoth God ; pay for it and take it. —
Nothing venture, nothing have. — Thou
Shalt be paid exactly for what thou hast
done, no more, no less. — Who doth not
work shall not eat. — Harm watch, harm
catch. — Curses always recoil on the head
of him who imprecates them. — If you put |
a chain around the neck of a slave, the
other end fastens itself around your own.
— Bad counsel confounds the adviser. —
The Devil is an ass.
It is thus written, because it is thus in
life. Our action is overmastered and
characterised above our will by the law of
nature. We aim at a petty end quite
aside from the public good, but our act
arranges itself by irresistible magnetism
in a line with the poles of the world.
A man cannot speak but he judges him-
self. With his will, or against his will, ho
draws his portrait to the eye of his com-
panions by every word. Every opinion
reacts on him who utters it. 1 1 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, un-
winding, as it flies, a coil of cord in the
boat, and if the harpoon is not good, or
not well thrown, it will go nigh to cut the
steersman in twain, or to sink the boat.
You cannot do wrong without suffering
wrong. *'No man bad ever a point of
31
pride that was not injurious to him,” said
Burke. The exclusive in fashionable life
does not see that he excludes himself from
enjoyment, in the attempt to 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 ninepins, 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 frorr his skin,” is
sound philosophy.
All infractions of love and equity in our
social relations are speed. ly punished.
They are punished by fear. Whilst I
stand in simple relations to my fellow-
man, I have no displeasure in meeting
him. We meet as water meets water, or
as two currents of air mix, with perfect
diffusion and interpenetration of nature.
But as soon as there is any departure
from simplicity, and attempt at halfness,
or good for me that is not good for him
my neighbour feels the wrong he shrinks
from me as far as I have shrunk from
him ; his eyes no longer seek mine ; there
is war between us ; there is hate in him
and fear in me.
All the old abuses in society, universal
and particular, all unjust accumulations
of property and power, are avenged in
the same manner. Fear is an instrucu^r
of great sagacity, and the herald of ail
revolutions. One thing he teaches, that
there is rottenness where he appears. Ho
is a carrion crow, and though you see not
well what he hovers for, there is death
somewhere. Our property is timid, our
laws are timid, our cultivated classes are
timid. Fear for ages has boded and
mowed and gibbered over government
and property. That 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 sus-
pension of our voluntary activity. The
terror of cloudless noon, the emerald of
Polycrates, the awe of prosperity, the
instinct which leads every generous soul
to impose on itself tasks of a noble asce-
ticism and vicarious virtue, are the trem-
blings 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 sco^and lot
as they go along, and that a man often
pays dear for a small frugality. The bor>
ESSAYS.
3 «
rower runs in his own debt. Has a man
gained anything who has received a hun-
dred favours and rendered none ? Has
he gained by borrowing, through indolence
or cunning, his neighbour’s wares, or
horses, or money ? There arises on the
deed the instant acknowledgment of
benefit on the one part, and of debt on the
other; that is, of superiority and in-
feriority. The transaction remains in the
memory of himself and his neighbour;
and every new transaction alters, accord-
ing to its nature, their relations to each
other. He may soon come to see that he
had better have broken his own bones
than to have ridden in his neighbour’s
coach, and that “ the highest price he can
pay for a thing is to ask for it.”
A wise man will extend this lesson to all
parts of life, and know that it is the part
of prudence to face every claimant, and
pay every just demand on your time, your
talents, or your heart. Always pay ; for,
first or last, you must pay your entire
debt. Persons and events may stand for
a time between you and justice, but it is
only a postponement. You must pay at
last your own debt. If you are wise, you
will dread a prosperity which only loads
you with more. Benefit is the end of
nature. But for every benefit which you
receive, a tax is levied. He is great who
confers the most benefits. He is base —
and that is the one base thing in the uni-
verse — to receive favours 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, line for
line, deed for deed, cent for cent, to some-
body. Beware of too much good staying
in your hand. It will fast corrupt and
worm worms. Pay it away quickly in
some sort.
Labour is watched over by the same
pitiless laws. Cheapest, say the prudent,
is the dearest labour. What we buy in a
broom, a mat, a waggon, a knife, is some
application of good sense to a common
want. It is best to pay in your land a
skilful gardener, or to buy good sense ap-
plied 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 accounts and affairs. So do you multi-
ply your presence, or spread yourself
throughout your estate. But because of
die dualconstitution of things, in labour
as in life there can be no cheating. The
thief Stella from himself. The swindler
swindles himself. For the real price 0i
labour is knowledge and virtue, whereo^
wealth and credit are signs. These signs,
like paper money, may be counterfeited
or stolen, but that which they represent,
namely, knowledge and virtue, cannot be
counterfeited or stolen. These ends of
labour cannot be answered but by real
exertions of the mind, and in obodienca
to pure motives. The cheat, the defaulter,
the gambler, cannot extort the knowledge
of material and moral nature which his
honest care and pains yield to the opera-
tive. 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 labour, through all its forms,
from the sharpening of a stake to the con-
struction of a city or an epic, is one im-
mense illustration of the perfect compen-
sation of the universe. The absolute
balance of Give and Take, the doctrine
that everything has its price— and if that
price is not paid, not that thing but some-
thing else is obtained, and that it is im-
possible to get anything without its price —
is not I'ess sublime in the columns of a
ledger than in the budgets of states, in the
laws of light and darkness, in all the action
and reaction of nature. I cannot doubt
that the high laws which each man sees
implicated in those processes with which
he is conversant, the stern ethics which
sparkle on his chisel-edge, which are mea-
sured out by his plumb and foot-rule,
which stand as manifest in the footing of
the shop bill as in the histoiy of a state —
do recommend to him his trade, and
though seldom named, exalt his business
to his imagination.
The league between virtue and nature
engages all things to assume a hostile
front to vice. The beautiful laws and sub-
stances of the world persecute and whip
the traitor. He finds that things are ar-
ranged for truth and benefit, but tliere is
no den in the wide world to hide a rogue.
Commit a crime, and the earth is made of
glass. Commit a crime, and it seems as
if a coat of snow fell on the ground, suck
as reveals in the woods the track of every
partrid'/e and fox and squirrel and mole
You cannot recall the spoken word, you
cannot wipe out the foot-track, vou can-
not draw up the ladder, so as to leave no
inlet or clew, Some damning circum-
stance always transpires. The la^^s and
substances of nature — water, snow, wind,
gravitation, become penalties to the thief.
On the other band, the law holds with
•dual sureneie for all right action. Love,
COMPENSATION,
and you shall be loved. All love is mathe-
matically just, as much as the two sides
Of an algebraic equation. The good man
has absolute good, which like fire turns
everything to its own nature, so that you
cannot do him any harm ; but as the royal
armies sent against Napoleon, when he
approached, cast down their colours and
from enemies became friends, so disasters
of all kinds, as sickness, offence, poverty,
prove benefactors : —
“ Winds blow and waters roll
Strength to tjtie brave, and power and deity,
Yet in themselves aie nothing.”
The good are befriended even by weak-
ness and defect. As no man had ever a
point of pride that was not injurious to
him, so no man had ever a defect that
was not somewhere made useful to him.
The stag in the fable admired his horns
and blamed his feet, but when the hunter
came, his feet saved him, and afterwards,
caught in the thicket, his horns destroyed
him. Every man in his lifetime needs to
thank his faults. As no man thoroughly
understands a truth until he has contended
against it, so no man has a thorough
acquaintance with the hindrances or
talents of men, until he has suffered from
the one, and seen the triumph of the
other over his own want of the same.
Has he a defect of temper that unfits him
to live in society ? Thereby he is driven
t6 entertain himself alone, and acquire
habits of self-help ; and thus, like the
wounded oyster, he mends his shell with
pearl.
Our strength grows out of our weakness.
The indignation winch arms itself with
secret forces does not awaken until we
are pricked and stung and sorely assailed.
A great man is always willing to be little.
Whilst ho sits on the cushion of advan-
tages ho goes to sleep. When he is
pushed, tormented, defeated, he has a
chance to learn something ; he has been
put on his wits, on his manhood ; he has
gained facts ; learns his ignorance ; is
cured of the insanity of conceit ; has got
moderation and real skill. The wise man
throws himself on the side of his assail-
ants. It is more his interest than it is
theirs to find his weak point. The wound
cicatrizes and falls off from him like a
dead skin, and when they would triumph,
lo I he has passed on invulnerable. Blame
is safer than praise. I hate to be defended
in a newspaper. As long as all that is
said is said against me, I feel a certain
AMuranco of success. But as soon as
33
honeyed wo/ds of praise are spoken tor
me, I feel as one that lies unprotected
before his enemies. In general, every
evil to which we do not succumb is a
benefactor. As the Sandwich Islander
believes that the strength and valour of the
enemy he kills passes into himself, so
we gain the strength of the temptation we
resist.
The same guards which protect us
from disaster, defect, and enmity, defend
us, if we will, from selfishness and fraud.
Bolts and bars are not the best of our in-
stitutions, 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 tiling to be and
not to be at the same time. There is
a third 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 payment is withholden,
the better for you ; for compound interest
on compound interest is the rate and
usage of this exchequer.
The history of persecution is a history
of endeavours to cheat nature, to make
water run up hill, to twist a rope of sand.
It makes no difference whether the actors
be many or one, a tyrant or a mob. A
mob is a society of bodies voluntarily
bereaving 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 consti-
tution. It persecutes a principle ; it
would whip a right ; it would tar and
feather justice, by inflicting fire and out-
rage upon the lioiises and persons of those
I 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 wrong-doers. The mar-
tyr cannot be dishonoured. Every lash
inflicted is a tonguo of fame ; every prison
a more illustrious abode; every burned
book or house enlightens the world ; evei^
suppressed or expunged word reverber-
ates through the earth from side to side.
Hours of sanity and consideration are
always arriving to communities a as to
individuals, when the truth is seen, and
the martyrs are justified.
ESSAYS.
S4
Thus do all thi&gs preach the indiffer-
ency of circumstances. The man is all.
Everything 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 in-
differency. The thoughtless say, on
hearing these representations — What
boots it to do well ? there is one event
to good and evil ; if I gain any good, I
must pay for it; if I lose any good, I gain
some other ; all actions are indifferent.
There is a deeper fact in the soul than
compensation, to wit,* its own nature.
The soul is not a compensation, but a
life. The soul is. Under all this running
sea* of circumstance, whose waters ebb
and flow with perfect balance, lies the
aboriginal abyss of real Being. Essence,
or God, is not a relation, or a part, but the
whole. Being in the vast affirmative, ex-
cluding 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. No-
thing, 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 ;
ft cannot work ; for it is not. It cannot
work any good ; it cannot work any harm.
1. is harm inasmuch as it is worse not to
be than to be.
We feel defrauded of the retribution due
to evil acts, because the criminal adheres
to his vice and contumacy, and does not
come to a crisis or judgment anywhere in
visible nature. There is no stunning con-
futation of his nonsense before men and
angels. Has he therefore outwitted the
law ? Inasmuch as he carries the malig-
nity and the lie with him, he so far de-
ceases from nature. In some manner
there will be a demonstration cf the wrong
to the understanding also ; but should we
not see it, this deadly deduction makes
square the eternal account.
Neither can it be said, on the other
hand, that the gain of rectitude must be
bought by any loss. There is no penalty
to virtue ; no penalty to wisdom ; they are
proper additions of being. In a virtuous
action, I properly am ; in a 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 excess
to love; none to knowledge; none to
beauty, when these attributes are con-
/jieredwin the purest sense. The soul
refuses limits, and always affirms an
timism, never a Pessimism.
His life is a progress, and not a station.
His instinct is trust. Our inst/nct uses
“ more ’’ and “ less ” in application to
man, of the presence of the soul, and not
of its absence ; the brave man is greater
than the coward ; the true, the benevolent,
the wise, is more a man, and not less, than
the fool and knave. There is no tax on
the good virtue ; for that is the incoming
of God himself, or absolute existence,
without any comparative. Material good
has its tax, and if it came without desert
or sweat, has no root in me, and the next
wind will blow it away. But all the good
of nature is the soul’s and may be had, if
paid for in nature’s lawful coin, that is by
labour 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 possessions, nor honours,
nor powers, nor persons. The gain is ap-
parent ; the tax is certain. But there is
no tax on the knowledge that the compen-
sation exists, and that it is not desirable to
dig up treasure. Herein I rejoice with a
serene eternal peace. I contract the boun-
daries of possible mischief. I learn the
wisdom of St. Bernard — “ Nothing can
work me damage except myself ; the harm
that I sustain I carry with me, and never
am a real sufferer but by my own fault.”
In the nature of the soul is the compen-
sation for the inequalities of condition.
The radical tragedy of nature seems to be
the distinction of More and Less. How
can Less not feel the pain ; how not feel
indignation or malevolence towards More ?
Look at those who have less faculty, and
one feels sad, knows not well what to make
of it. He^almost shuns their eye ; he fears
they will upbraid God. What should they
do ? It seems a great injustice. But see
the facts nearly, and these mountainous
inequalities vanish. Love reduces them,
as the sun melts the iceberg in the sea.
The heart and soul of all men being one,
this bitterness of His and Mine ceases,
His is mine. I am my brother, and my
brother is me. If I feel overshadowed
and outdone by great neighbours, I can
yet love ; I can still receive ; and he that
loveth maketh his own the grandeur he
loves. Thereby I make the discovery that
my brother is my guardian, acting for me
with the friendliest designs, and the estate
I so admired and envied is my own. It is
the nature of the soul to appropriate all
SPIRITUAL LAWS.
things. Jesas and Shakespeare are frag-
ments of the soul, and by love I conquer
and incorporate them in my own conscious
domain. His virtue — is not that mine ?
His wit — if it cannot be made mine, it is
not wit.
Such, also, is the natural history of ca-
lamity, The changes which break up at
short intervals the prosperity of men are
advertisements of a nature whose law is
growth. Every soul is by this intrinsic
necessity quitting its whole system of
things, its friends, and home, and laws,
and faith, as the shell-fish crawls out of
its beautiful but stony case, because it no
longer admits of its growth, and slowly
forms a new house. In proportion to the
vigour of the individual, these revolutions
are frequent, until in some happier mind
they are incessant, and all worldly rela-
tions hang very loosely about him, becom-
ing, as it were, a transparent fluid mem-
brane through which the living form is
seen, and not, as in most men, an indu-
rated heterogeneous fabric of many dates,
and of no settled character, in which the
man is imprisoned. Then there can be
enlargement, and the man of to-day
Bcarcel y recognises the man of yesterday.
And such should be the outward biography
of man in time, a putting off of dead cir-
cumstances day by day, as he renews his
raiment day by day. But to us, in our
fapsed estate, resting, not advancing, re-
sisting, not co-operating with the divine
expansion, this growth comes by shocks.
Wo '?annot part with our friends. We
cannoi let our angels go. We do not see
that 'ihey only go ^ut, that archangels
may come in. We are idolaters of the
old. We do not believe in the riches of
the soul, in its proper eternity and omni-
preiieoce. We do not believe there is any
force in to-day to rival or recreate that
beautiful yesterday. We linger in the
ruins of the old tent, where once we had
bread and shelter and organs, nor believe
that the spirit can feed, cover, and nerve
us again. We cannot again find aught so
dear, so sweet, so graceful. But we sit
and weep in vain. The voice of the Al-
mighty saith, “Up and onward forever-
more ! ” We cannot stay amid the ruin&
Neither will we rely on the new ; and so
we walk ever with reverted eyes, like
those monsters who look backwards.
And yet the compensations of calamity
are made apparent to the understanding
also, after long intervals of time. A fever,
a mutilation, a cruel disappointment, a
loss of wealth, a loss of friends, seems at
the moment unpaid loss, and unpayable.
But the sure years reveal the deep re-
medial force that underlies all facts. The
death of a dear friend, wife, brother, lover,
which seemed nothing but privation,
somewhat later assumes the aspect of a
guide or genius ; for it commonly operates
revolutions in our way of life, terminates
an epoch of infancy or of youth which
was waiting to be closed, breaks up a
wonted occupation, or a household, or
style of living, and allows the formation
of new ones more friendly to the growth
of character. It permits or constrains the
formation of new acquaintances, and the
reception of new influences that prove of
the first importance to the next years;
and the man or woman who would have
remained a sunny garden-flower, with no
room for its roots and too much sunshine
for its head, by the falling of the walls
and the neglect of the gardener is made
the banian of the forest, yielding shade
and fruit to wide neighbourhoods of
men.
SPiKiTUAL LAWS
The living Heaven thy prayers respect,
House at once and architect,
Harrying man’s rejected hours,
uilds therewith eternal towers ;
Sole and self-commanded works,
Fears not undermining days,
Grows by decays,
And, by the famous might that lurks
In reaction and recoil.
Makes flame to freeze, and ice to boil ;
Forging, through swart arms of Offence,
The silvet seat of Innocence.
Whbn the act of reflection takes place in
the mind, when we look at oorsolves 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 Ims lain
in the chambers has added a solemn orna-
ment to the house. The soul urili not
ESSAYS.
3 ^
know either deformity or pain. If, in the
hours of clear reason, we should speak
the severest truth, we should say, that we
had never made a sacrifice. In these
hours the mind seems so great, that
nothing can be taken from us that seems
much. All loss, all pain, is particular;
the universe remains to the heart unhurt.
Neither vexations nor calamities abate
our trust. No man ever stated his griefs
lightly as he might. Allow for exag-
geration in the most patient and sorely
ridden hack that was ever 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 obstructiotui and doubts. Our
young people are diseased with the theo-
logical problems of original sin, original
of evil, predestination, and the like.
These never presented a practical diffi-
culty to any man — never darkened across
any man’s road, who did not go out of
his way to seek them. Tliese are the
soul's mumps, and measles, 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 ac-
count of his faith, and expound to another
the theory of his self-union and freedom.
This requires rare gifts. Yet, without
this self-knowledge, there maybe a sylvan
strength and integrity in that which he
is. “ A few strong instincts and a few
plain rules” suffice us.
My will never gave the images in my
mind the rank they now take. The regu-
lar course of studies, the years of aca-
demical 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 at-
tempts to thwart and baulk this natural
magnetism, which is sure to select what
belongs to it.
In life manner, our moral nature is
vitiated by any interference of our will.
People represent virtue at a struggle, and
take to themselves great airs upon ihclr
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 im-
pulsive and spontaneous. The less a man
thinks or knows about his virtues, the
better we like him. Timoleon’s victories
are the best victories ; which ran and
flowed like Homer’s verses, Plutarch said.
When we see a soul whose acts are all
regal, graceful, and pleasant as roses, we
must thank God that such things can b^
and are, and not turn sourly on the angei,
and say, ” Crump is a better man with his
grunting resistance to all his native
devils.”
Not less conspicuous is the propon
derance of nature over will in all practical
life. There is less intention in history
than we ascribe to it. We impute deep*
laid, far-sighted plans to Ctesar 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.
I 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
hollow. That which externally seemed
will and immovableness was willingness
and self-annihilation. Could Shakespeare
give a theory of Shakespeare ? Could
ever a man of prodigious mathematical
genius convey to others any insight into
his methods ? If he could communicate
that secret, it would instaJitly lose its ex-
aggerated value, blending with the day*
light and the vital energy the power to
stand a;*d to go.
The lesson is forcibly taught by these
observations, that our life might be much
easier and simpler than we make it ; that
the world might be a happier place than
it is ; that there is no need of struggles,
convulsions, and despairs, of the wringing
of the hands and the gnashing of tho
teeth; that wo miscreate our owneviLii
SPIRITUAL LAWS,
37
We Interfere with the optimism of nature ;
for, whenever we get this vantage-ground
of the past, or of a wiser mind in the pre-
sent, we are able to discover that we are
begirt with laws which execute themselves.
The face of eternal nature teaches the
same lesson. Nature will not have us
fret and fume, She does not like our
benevolence or our learning much better
than she likes our frauds and wars. When i
we come out of the caucus, or the bank, *
or the Abolition convention, or the Tem-
perance meeting, or the Transcendental
club, into the fields and woods, she says
to us, “ So hot ? my little sir.”
We are full of mechanical actions. We
must needs intermeddle, and have things
in our own way, until the sacrifices and
virtues of society are odious. Love
should make joy ; but our benevolence
is unhappy. Our Sunday schools and
churches and pauper societies are yokes
to the neck. We pain ourselves to please
nobody. There are natural ways of ar-
riving at the same end^ at which these
aim, but do not arrive. Why should all
virtue work in one and the same way ?
Why should all give dollars ? It is very
inconvenient to us country folk, and we
do not think any good will come of it.
Wo have not dollars; merchants have;
let them give them. Farmers will give
corn ; poets will sing ; women will sew ;
labourers will lend a hand ; the children
will bring flowers. And why drag this
dead weight of a Sunday school over the
whole Christemlom ? 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 tlio y^ung
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 travesty of truth. Our
society is encumbered by ponderous ma-
chinery, which resembles the endless
aqueducts which the Romans built over
hill and dale, and which are superseded
by the discovery of the law that water
rises to the level of its source. It is a
Chinese wall which any nimble Tartar
can leap over. It is a standing army, not
so good as a peace. It is a graduated,
titled, richly appointed empire, quite
superfluous when town-meetings are
found to answer just as well.
Let us draw a lesson from nature,
always works by short ways. Whep
I the fruit is ripe, it falls. When the fruit
is despatched, the leaf falls. The circuit
of the waters is mere falling. The walking
of man and all animals is a falling for-
ward. All our manual labour and works
of strength, as prying, splitting, digging,
rowing, and so forth, are done by dint of
continual falling, and the globe, earth,
moon, comet, sun, star, fall for ever and
ever.
The simplicity of the universe is very
different from the simplicity of a machine.
He who sees moral nature out and out,
and thoroughly knows how knowledge is
acquired and character formed, is a pe-
dant. 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
I 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
babies. One sees very well how Pyrr-
honism grew up. Every man sees that
he is that middle point, whereof every-
thing may be affirmed and denied with
equal reason. He is old, he is young, ha
is very wise, he is altogether ignorant,
He hears and feels what you say of the
seraphim and of the tin pedlar. There is
no permanent wise man, except in the
figment of the Stoics. We side with the
hero, as we read or paint, against the
coward and the robber ; but we have been
ourselves that coward and robber, and
shall be again, not in the low circum-
stance, but in comparison with the
grandeurs possible to the soul.
A little consideration of what takee
place around us every day would show us
that a higher law than that of our will
1 regulates events ; that our painful labour*
are unnecessary and fruiUess ; that only
I in our easy, simple, spontaneous actioa
are we strong, and by contenting our-
selves with obedience we become divine.
Belief and love — a believing love will
relieve us of a vast load of care. O my
, brothers, God exists. There is a soul at
the centre of nature, and over the will ol
every man, so that none of us oan wrong
the universe. It has so infused its strong*
enchantment into nature, that we prosper
when we accept its advice, and when we
struggle to wound its creatures oik hand*
are glued to our sides, or they b :at our
ESSAYS.
38
own breasts. The whole course of things
goes to teach us faith. We need only
obey. There is guidance for each of us,
and by lowly listening we shall hear the
right word. Why need you choose so
painfully your place, and occupation, and
associates, and modes of action, and of
entertainment ? Certainly there is a pos-
sible right for you that precludes the
need of balance and wilful election. For
you there is a reality, a fit place and con-
genial duties. Place yourself in the
middle of the stream of power and wisdom
which animates all whom it floats, and
you are without effort impelled to truth, to
right, and a perfect contentment. Then
you put all gainsayers in the wrong. Then
you are the world, the measure of right,
of truth, of beauty. If we will not be mar-
plots with our miserable interferences, the
work, the society, letters, arts, science,
religion of men would go on far better
than now, and the heaven predicted from
the beginning of the world, and still pre-
dicted from the bottom of the heart,
would organise itself, as do now the rose,
and the air, and the sun.
I say, do not choose; but that is a figure
of speech by which I would distinguish
what is commonly called choice among
men, and which is a partial act, the choice
of the hands, of the eyes, of the appetites,
and not a whole act of the man. But that
which I call right or goodness is the choice
of my constitution ; and that which I call
heaven, and inwardly aspire after, is the
state or circumstance desirable to my con-
stitution ; and the action which I in all my
years tend to do, is the work for my facul-
ties. We must hold a man amenable to
reason for the choice of his daily craft or
profession. It is not an excuse any longer
for his deeds, that they are the custom of
his trade. What business has he with an
evil trade ? Has he not a calling in his
character ?
Each man has his own vocation. The
talent is the call. There is one direction
in which all space is open to him. He
has faculties silently inviting him thither
to endless exertion. He is like a ship in
a river ; he runs against obstructions on
every side but one ; on that side all ob-
struction is taken away, and he sweeps
serenely over a deepening channel into an
infinite sea. This talent and this call
depend on his organisation, or the mode
in which the general soul incarnates it-
fclf in him. He inclines to do something
which i#easy to him, and good when it is
dOM, bu{ which no other man can do. He
has no rival. For the more truly he cott*
suits his own powers, the more difference
will his work exhibit from the work of any
other. His ambition is exactly propor-
tioned 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 fanati-
cism, and betrays obtuseness to perceive
that there is one mind in all the indivi-
duals, and no respect of persons therein.
By doing his work, he makes the need
felt which he can supply, and creates the
taste by which he is enjoyed. By doing
his own work, he unfolds himself. It is
the vice of our public speaking that it has
not abandonment. Somewhere, not only
every orator but every man should let out
all the length of all the reins ; should find
or make a frank and hearty expression of
what force and meaning is in him. The
common experience is, that the man fits
himself as well as he can to the customary
details of that work or trade he falls intO;
and tends it as a dog turns a spit. Then
is he a part of the machine he moves ; the
man is lost. Until he can manage to com-
municate 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 la-
bour is mean, let him by his thinking and
character make it liberal. Whatever he
knows and thinks, whatever in his appre-
hension is worth doing, that let him com-
municate, or men will never know and
honour him aright. Foolish, whenever
you take the meanness and formality of
that thing you do, instead of converting it
into the obedient spiracle of your charac-
ter and aims.
We like only such actions as have al-
ready long had the praise of men, and do
not perceive that anything man can do
may be divinely done. We think great-
ness entailed or organised in some places
or dutiej, in certain offices or occasions,
and do not see that Paganini can extract
rapture^ from a cat-gut, and Eulenstein
from a Jew’s-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 oonditioo or vulgar so-
SPIRITUAL LAWS,
eiety is that condition and society whose
poetry is not yet written, but which you
shall presently make as enviable and re-
nowned as any. In our estimates, let us
take a lesson from kings. The parts of
hospitality, the connection of families, the
impressiveness of death, and a thousand
other things, royalty makes its own esti-
mate of, and a royal mind will. To make
habitually a new estimate — that is eleva-
tion.
What a m:.in does, that he has. What
has he to do with hope or fear ? In him-
self 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 tlie momen-
tary signs of his infinite productiveness.
He may have his own. A man’s genius,
the quality that differences him from.every
other, the susceptibility to one class of
influenoes, tlie selection of what is fit for
him, the rejection of what is unfit, deter-
mines for him the character of the
universe. A man is a method, a pro-
gressive arrangement ; a selecting prin-
ciple, gathering his like to liim, 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 sent 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 arc symbols of
value to him, as they can interpret p.arts
of his consciousness which he would
vainly seek words for in the conventional
images of books and other minds. What
attracts my attention shall have it, as I
will go to the man who knocks at my
door, whilst a thousand persons, as
worthy, go by it, to whom I give no ;
regard. It is enough that these particu-
lars speak to me. A fevv anecdotes, a few
traits of 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
•bout for illustration and facts more usual
k\ litomture. What your heart thinks
gre.it is great The soul’s emphasis w
'ilways right.
59
Over all things that are agreeable to his
nature and genius, the man has the
highest right. Everywhere he may taka
what belongs to his spiritual estate, nor
can all the force of men hinder him from
taking so much. It is vain to attempt to
keep a secret from one who has a right to
know it. It will tell itself. That mood
into which a friend can bring us is his
dominion oicr 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 diplo-
macy. But Napoleon sent to Vienna M,
de Narbonne, one of the old noblesse,
with the morals, manners, and name of
[ that interest, saying, that it was indis-
I pensable to send to the old aristocracy of
[ Europe men of the same connection,
which, in fact, constitutes a sort of free-
masonry. M. de Narbonne, in less than
a fortnight, penetrated all the secrets of
the imperial cabinet.
Nothing seems so easy as to speak and
to be understood. Yet a man may coma
to find ihat the strongest of defences and
of ties — that he has been understood ;
and he who has received an opinion may
come to find it the most inconvenient of
bonds.
If a teacher have any opinion which ha
wishes to conceal, his pupils will become
as fully indoctrinated into that as into any
which he publishes. If you pour water
into a vessel twisted into coils and angles,
it is vain to say, I will pour it only into
this or that ; it will find its level in all.
Mon feel and act the consequences of
your doctrine, without being able to show
how they follow. Show us an arc of the
curve, and a good mathematician will find
out the whole figure. We are always
reasoning from the seen to tlie unseen.
Hence the perfect intelligence that sub-
sists 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 ho
conceal from the eyes of Bacon ? of Mon-
taigne ? of Kant ? Therefore, Aristotle
said of his works, “ They are published
and not published.”
No man can learn what he has not pre-
paration for learning, however near to his
eyes is the object. A chemist miy tell
his most precious secrets to a carpenter,
and ho shall be never the wislr — the
U
ESSAYS.
40
■ecrets ho 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 arrives
when the mind is ripened; then we be-
hold them, and the time when we saw
them not is like a dream.
Not in nature but in man is all the
beauty and worth he sees. The world is
very empty, and is indebted to this gild-
ing, exalting soul for all its pride. “ Earth
fills her lap with splendours" not her own.
The vale of Tempe, Tivoli, and Rome
are earth and water, rocks and sky. There
are as good earth and water in a thousand
places, yet how unaffecting I
People are not the better for the sun
and moon, the horizon and the trees ; as
it is not observed that the keepers of
Homan galleries, or the valets of painters,
have any elevation of thought, or that
librarians are wiser men than others.
There are graces in the demeanour of a
polished and noble person, which are lost
upon the eye of a churl. These are like
the stars whose light has not yet reached
us.
He may see what he maketh. Our
dreams are the sequel of our waking
knowledge. The visions of the night bear
some proportion to the visions of the day.
Hideous dreams are exaggerations of the
sins of the day. We see our evil affec-
tions embodied in bad physiognomies.
On the Alps the traveller sometimes be-
holds his own shadovir magnified to a
giant, so that every gesture of his hand is
terrific. My children," said an old man
to his boys scared by a figure in the dark
entry — '* my children, you will never see
anything worse than yourselves." As in
dreams, so in the scarcely less fluid
events of the world, every man sees him-
self 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 initi^, medial, and terminal acros-
tic. And why not? He cleaves to one
person, 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
•very View you take of bis ciioumstancet.
He may read what writes. What
can we see or acquire, but what we are ?
You have observed a skilful man reading
Virgil. Well, that author is a thousand
books to a thousand persons. Take the
book into your two hands, and read your
eyes out ; you will never find what I find.
If any ingenious reader would have a
monopoly of the wisdom or delight he
gets, he is as secure now the book is
Englished, as if it were imprisoned in the
Pelews* tongue. It is with a good book as
it is with good company. Inti‘oduce a
base person among gentlemen ; it is all to
no purpose ; he is not their fellow. Every
society protects itself. The company is
perfectly safe, and he is not one of them,
though his body is in the room.
What avails it to fight with the eternal
laws of mind, which adjust the relation of
all persons to each other, by the mathe-
matical measure of their havings and
beings ? Gertrude is enamoured of Guy ;
how high, how aristocratic, how Roman
his mien and manners 1 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 aris-
tocratic, how Roman his mien and maoi-
ners, if his heart and aims are in the
senate, in the theatre, and in the billiard-
room, and she has no aims, no conversa-
tion, that can enchant her graceful lord ?
He shall have his own society. We can
love nothing but nature. The most won-
derful talents, the most meritorious exer-
tions, really avail very little with us ; but
nearness or likeness of nature — how
beautiful is the ease of its victory I Persons
approach us famous for their beauty, for
their accomplishments, worthy of all
wonder for their charms and gifts ; they
dedicate their whole skill to the hour and
the company, with very imperfect result.
To be sure, it would be ungrateful in ua
not to praise them loudly. Then, when
all is done, a person of related mind, a
brother or sister by nature, comes to ua
so softly and easily, so nearly and inti-
mately, 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
ia a sort of joyful solitude. We foolishly
think in our days of sin, that we must
court friends by compliance to the customs
of society, to its dress, its breeding, and
its estimates. But only that soul can be
my friend which I encounter on the lino
ot my own marcbi that soul to which I do
SPIRITUAL LAWS.
4t
not decline, and which does not decline
to me, but, native of the same celestial
latitude, repeats in its own all my experi-
ence. The scholar forgets himself, and
apes the customs and costumes of the
man of the world, to deserve the smile of
beauty, and follow some giddy girl not
yet taught by religious passion to know
the noble woman with all that is serene,
oracular, and beautiful in her soul. Let
him be great, and love shall follow him.
Nothing is more deeply punished than
the neglect of the affinities by which alone
society should be formed, and the insane
levity of choosing associates by others’
eyes.
He may set his own rate. It is a maxim
worthy of all acceptation, that a man may
have that allowance he takes. Take the
place and attitude which belong to you,
and all men acquiesce. The world must
be just. It leaves every man, with pro-
found unconcern, to set his own rate.
Hero or driveller, it meddles not in the
matter. It will certainly accept your own
measure of your doing and being, whether
you sneak about and deny your own name,
or whether you see your work produced
to the concave sphere of the heavens, one
with the revolution of the stars.
The same reality pervades all teaching.
The man may teach by doing, and not
otherwise. If he can communicate him-
self, he can teach, but not by words. He
teaches w^ho gives, and he learns who re- ’
ceives. There is no teaching until the
pupil is brought into the same state or
principle in which you are ; a transfusion j
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 will deliver an oration on the
Fourth of July, and Mr. Hand before the
Mechanics’ Association, and we do not go
thither, because we know that these gen-
tlemen will not communicate their own
character and experience to the company.
If we had reason to expect such a confi-
dence, we should go through all inconve-
nience and opposition. The sick would
be carried in litters. But a public oration |
is an escapade, a non-committal, an apo-
logy, a gag, and not a communication, not
a speech, not a man.
A like Nemesis presides over all intel-
lectual works. We have yet to learn, that
the thing uttered in words is not therefore
affirmed, Xt must affirm itself, or no
I forms of logic or of oath can give it evl«
[ dence. The sentence must also contain
j 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 awakens 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 that writes to himself writes to an
eternal public. That statement only is fit
to be made public, which you have come
at in attempting to satisfy your own curio-
sity. The writer who takes his subject
from his ear, and not from his heart,
should know that he has lost as much as
he seems to have gained, and when the
empty book has gathered all its praise,
and half the people say, “ What poetry !
what genius I ” it still needs fuel to make
fire. That only profits which is profitable.
Life alone can impart life ; and though wo
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, de-
cides upon every man’s title to fame.
Only those books come down which de-
serve to last. Gilt edges, vellum, and
morocco, and presentation copies to ^ the
libraries, will not preserve a book in cir-
culation beyond its intrinsic date. It must
go with all Walpole’s Noble and Royal
Authors to its fate. Blackmore, Kotzebue,
or Pollok may endure for a night, but
Moses and Homer stand for ever. There
are not in the world at any one time more
than a dozen persons who read and under-
stand Plato : never enough to pay for an
edition of his works ; yet to every genera-
tion these come duly down, for the sake of
those few persons, as if God brought them
in hhi hand. *' No book,” said Bentley,
” was ever written down by any but
itself.” The permanence of ail books is
fixed by no effort friendly or hostile, but
by their own specific gravity, fr the in-
trinsic importance of their oontents to Uie
ESS A YS,
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 measured by the depth of the senti-
ment 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 circum-
stances of the moment. But now, every-
thing he did, even to the lifting of his
finger or the eating of bread looks large,
all-related, and is called an institution.
These are the demonstrations in a few
particulars of the genius of nature ; they
show the direction of the stream. But the
stream is blood ; every drop is alive.
Truth has not single victories ; all things
are its organs — not only dust and stones,
but errors and lies. The laws of disease,
physicians say, are as beautiful as the laws
of health. Our philosophy is affirmative,
and readily accepts the testimony of nega-
tive facts, as every shadow points to the
sun. By a divine necessity, every fact in
nature is constrained to offer its testi-
mony.
Human character evermore publishes
itself. The most fugitive deed and word,
the mere air of doing a thing, the inti-
mated purpose, expresses character. If
you act, you show character ; if you sit
still, if you sleep, you show it. You think,
because you have spoken nothing when
others spoke, and have given no opinion
on the times, on the church, on slavery,
on marriage, on socialism, on secret so-
cieties, on the college, on parties and
persons, that your verdict is still expected
with curiosity as a reserved wisdom. Far
otherwise ; your silence answers very loud.
You have no oracle to utter ; and your
fellow-men have learned that you cannot
help them ; for, oracles speak. Doth not i
wisdom cry, and understanding put forth j
her voice ?
Dreadful limits are set in nature to the
powers of dissimulation. Truth tyran-
nises over the unwilling 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 j
is muddyfand sometimes asquint.
I have heaird an experienced couocellor
say, that he never feared the effect upon a
jury of a lawyer who does not believe in
in his heart that his client ought to have a
verdict. If he does not believe it, his un-
I belief will appear to the jury, despite all
his protestations, and will become their
unbelief. This is that law whereby a work
of art, of whatever kind, sets us in the
same state of mind wherein the artist was
when he made it. That which we do not
believe, we cannot adequately say, though
we may repeat the words never so often.
It was this conviction which Swedenborg
expressed, when he described a group of
persons in the spiritual world endeavour-
ing 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 re-
maining unknown is not less so. If a man
know that he can do anything — 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 at-
tempts, he is assayed and stamped. In
every troop of boys that whoop and run
in each yard and square, a now-comer is
as well and accurately weighted in the
course of a few days, and stamped with
his right number, as if he had undergone
a formal trial of his strength, speed, and
temper. A stranger comes from a distant
school, with better dress, with trinkets in
his pockets, with airs and pretensions : an
older boy says to himself, “ It's of bo use ;
we shall find him out to-morrow.” ” What
has he done ? ” is the divine question which
searches men, and transpierces every false
reputation. A fop may sit in any chair of
the world, nor be distinguished for his
hour from Homer and Washington; but
there need never be any doubt concerning
the respective ability of human beings,
Pretension may sit still, but cannot act.
Pretension never feigned an act of real
greatness. Pretension never wrote an
Iliad, nor drove back Xerxes, nor Chris-
tianised the world, nor abolished slavery.
As much virtue there is, so much ap-
pears ; as much goodness as there is, so
much reverence it commands. All the
devils respect virtue. The high, the gene-
rous, the self-devoted sect will always in-
struct and command mankind. Never
was a sincere word utterly lost. Never a
magnanimity fell to the ground, but there
SPIRITUAL LA WS.
If some heart to greet and accept it unex-
pectedly. A man passes for that he is
worth. What he is engraves itself on his
face, on his form, on his fortunes, in letters
of light. Concealment avails him nothing?;
boasting nothing. There is confession in
the glances of our eyes ; in our smiles ; in
salutations ; and the grasp of hands. His
sin bedaubs him, mars all his good im-
pression. Men know not why they do not
trust him. His vice glasses his eye, cuts
lines of mean expression in his cheek,
pinches the nose, sets the mark of the
beast on the back of the head, and writes
O fool 1 fool ! on the forehead of a king.
If you would not be known to do any-
thing, never do it. A man may play the
fool in the drifts of a desert, but every
grain of sand shall seem to see. He may
be a solitary eater, but he cannot keep
his foolish counsel. A broken complexion,
a swinish look, ungenerous acts, and the
want of due knowledge— all blab. Can a
cook, aChiffinch, an lachimo be mistaken
for Zeno or Paul ! Confucius exclaimed :
“ How can a man be concealed I How
can a man be concealed ! ”
On the other hand, the hero fears not,
that, if he withhold the avowal of a just
and brave act, it will go unwitnessed and
unloved. One knows it— himself — and is
pledged by it to sweetness of peace, and
to nobleness of aim. which will prove in
the end a better proclamation of it than
the relating of the incident. Virtue is the
adherence in action to the nature of
things, and the nature of things makes it
prevalent. It consists in a perpetual-sub-
stitution of being for seeming, and with
sublime propriety God is described as
saying, I AM.
The lesson which these observations
convey is, Be, and not seem. Let us ac-
quiesce. Let us take our bloated nothing-
ness out of the path of the divine circuits.
Let us unlearn our wisdom of the world.
Let us lie low in the Lord's power, and
learn that truth alone makes rich and
great.
If you visit your friend, why need you
apologise 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 tor-
ment yourself and friend by secret self-
reproaches that you have not assisted him
or complimented him with gifts and salu-
tations heretofore ? Be a gift and a
benediction. Shine with real light, and
not with the borrowed relSection of gifts.
43
Common men are apologies for men , they
bow the head, excuse themselves with
prolix reasons, and accumulate appear*
ances, 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 pre-
sident, a merchant, or a porter. We adore
an institution, and do not see that it is
founded on a thought which we have.
But real action is in silent moments. The
epochs of our life are not in the visible
facts of our choice of a calling, our mar-
riage, 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 entire 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, ac-
cording to their ability, execute its will.
This revisal or correction is a constant
force, which, as a tendency, reaches
through our lifetime. The object of the
man, the aim of these moments, is to
make daylight shine through him, to suffer
the law to traverse his whole being with-
out obstruction, so that, on what point
soever of his doing your eye falls, it shall
report truly of his character, whether it
be his diet, his house, his religious forms
his society, his mirth, his vote, his oppo-
sition. Now he is not homogeneous, but
heterogeneous, and the ray does not tra-
verse ; there are no thorough lights ; but
the eye of the beholder is puzzled, detect-
ing many unlike tendencies, and a life
not yet at one.
Why should we make it a point with
our false modesty to disparage that man
we are, and that form of being assigned
to us ? A good man is contented. I lovo
and honour Epaminondas, but I do not
wish to be Epaminondas. I hold it more
just to love the world of this hour, than
the world of his hour. Nor can you, if I
am true, excite me to the least uneasiness
by saying, ” He acted, and thou sittest
still.” I see action to be good, when the
need is, and sitting still to be also good.
Epaminondas, if he was the man I take
him for, would have sat still with joy and
peace, if his lot had been mine. Heaven
is large, and affords space for all modes
of love and fortitude. Why should wo be
busybodies 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 noth.
I desire not to disgrace the soul. Ths
ESSAYS.
44
fact that I am here certainly ohows me
that the soul had need of an organ here.
Shall 1 not assume the post? Shall I
skulk and dodge and duck with my un-
seasonable apologies and vain modesty,
and imagine my being here imper^nent ?
less pertinent than Epaminondas or Homer
being there? and that the soul did not
know its own needs? Besides, without
any reasoning on the matter, I have no
discontent. The good soul nourishes me,
and unlocks new magazines of power and
enjoyment to me every day. I will not
meanly decline the immensity of good,
because I have heard that it has come to
otliers in another shape.
Besides, why should we be cowed by
the name of Action ? 'Tis a trick of the
senses — no more. We know that the ances-
tor 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 Cal-
vinistic prayer-meeting, or philanthropic
society, or a great donation, or a high
office, or, anyhow, some wild contrasting
action to testify that it is somewhat. The
rich mind lays in the sun and sleeps, and
ds Nature, To think is to act.
Let us, if we must have great actions,
make our own so, All action is of an in-
finite elasticity, and the least admits of
being inflated with the celestial air until it
eclipses the sun and moon. Let us seek
one peace by fidelity. Let me heed my
duties. Why need I go gadding into the
scenes and philosophy of Greek and
Italian history, before I have justified
myself to my benefactors ? How dare I
read Washington’s campaigns, when I
have not answered the letters of my own
correspondents ? Is not that a just objec-
tion to much of our reading? It is a
pusillanimous desertion of our work to
gaze after our neighbours. It is peeping.
Byron says of Jack Bunting—
** He knew not what to say and so he swore.”
1 may say it of our preposterous use of
books— He knew not what to do and so
he read, I can think of nothing to fill my
time v;ith, and I find the Life of Brant.
l\ is a very extravagant compliment to
iJiiy to Brant, or to General Schuyler, or 1
to General Washington. My time should
be as good as their time— my facts, my
net of relations, as good as theirs, or
either of theirs. Rather let me do my
work so well that other idlers, if they
choose, may compare my texture with the
texture of these and find it identical with
the best.
This over-estimate of the possibilities
of Paul and Pericles, this under-estimate
of our own, comes from a neglect of the
fact of an identical nature. Bonaparte
knew but one merit, and rewarded in one
and the same way the good soldier, the
good astronomer, the good poet, the good
player. The poet uses the names of
Caesar, of Tamerlane, of Bonduca, of Beli-
sarius ; the painter uses the conventional
story of the Virgin Mary, of Paul, of Peter.
He does not, therefore, defer to the nature
of these accidental men, of these stock
heroes. If the poet write a true drama,
then he is Caesar, and not the player of
Caesar ; then the se|f-sam 0 strain of
thought, emotion as pure, wit as subtle,
motions as swift, mounting, extravagant,
and a heart as great, self-sufficing, daunt-
less, which on the waves of its love and
hope can uplift all that is reckoned solid
and precious in the world— palaces, gar*
dens, money, navies, kingdoms— marking
its own incomparable worth by the slight
it casts on these gauds of men— these
are all his, and by the power of these
he rouses the nations. Let a man believe
in God, and notin 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 scoui
floors, and its effulgent daybeams canno*
be muffled or hid, but to sweep and scour
will instantly appear supreme and beauti-
ful actions, the top and radiance of human
life, and all pooplo will get mops and
brooms ; until, lo I * suddenly the great
goul has enshrined itself in some other
form, and done some other deed, and that
is now the flower and head of all living
nature.
We are the photometers, we the irrit-
able gold-leaf and tinfoil that measure the
accumulations of the subtle element. Wo
know the authentic effects of the true fjro
through everyone of its million disgussri.
LOVB
45
LOVE.
M I was as a gem concealed
Me my burning ray revealed.”
Koran.
Every promise of the soul has innu-
merable fulfilments; each of its joys
ripens into a new want. Nature, uncon-
tainable, flowing, forelooking, in the first
sentiment of kindness anticipates already
a benevolence which shall lose all par-
ticular regards in its general light. The
introduction to this felicity is in a private
and tender relation of one to one, which
is the enchantment of human life ; which,
like a certain divine rage and enthusiasm,
seizes on a man at one period, and works
a revolution in his mind and body ; unites
him to his race, pledges him to the do-
mestic and civic relations, carries him
with new sympathy into nature, enhances
the power of the senses, opens the imagi-
nation, adds to his character heroic and
sacred tributes, establishes marriage, and
gives permanence to human society.
The natural association of the sen-
timent of love with the heyday of the
blood seems to require, that in order to
portray it in vivid tints, which every youth
and maid should confess to be true to
their throbbing experience, one must not
be too old. The delicious fancies of
youth reject the least savour of a mature
philosophy, as chilling with age and
pedantry their purple bloom. And, there-
fore, I know I incur the imputation of un-
necessary hardness and stoicism from
those who compose the Court and Parlia-
of Love. But from these formidable cen-
sors I shall appeal to my seniors. For it
is to be considered that this passion of
which we speak, though it begin with the
young, yet forsakes not the old, or rather
stiffers no one who is truly its servant to
grow old, but makes the aged participators
of it, not less than the tender maiden,
though in a different and nobler sort. For
it is a fire that, kindling its first embers in
the narrow nook of a private boaom,
caught from a wandering spark out of
another private heart, glows and enlarges
until it warms and beams upon multitudes
of men and women, upon the universal
heart of all, and so lights up the whole
world and all nature with its generous
flames. It matters not, therefore, whether
we attempt to describe the passion at
twenty, at thirty, or at eighty years. He
who paints it at the first period will lose
some of its later, he who paints it at the
last, some of its earlier traits. Only it is
to be hoped that, by patience and the
Muses' aid, we may attain to that inward
view of the law, which shall describe a
truth ever young and beautiful, so central
that it shall commend itself to the eye, at
whatever angle beholden.
And the first condition is, that we must
leave a too close and lingering adherence
to facts, and study the sentiment as it ap-
peared in hope and not in history. For
each man sees his own life defaced and
disfigured, as the life of man is not, to his
imagination. Each man sees over his
own experience a certain stain of error,
whilst that of other men looks fair and
ideal. Let any man go back to those de-
licious 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.
Everything is beautiful seen from the
point of the intellect, or as truth. But all
is sour, if seen as experience. Details
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
j the ideal, is immortal hilarity, the rose of
I joy. Round it all the Muses sing. But
grief cleaves to names, and persons, and
the partial interests of to-day and yester-
day.
The strong bent of nature is seen in
the proportion which this topic of per-
sonal relations usurps in the conversation
of society. What do we wish to know of
any worthy person so much, as how ho
has sped in the history of this sentiment ?
What books in the circulating libraries
circulate ? How we glow over these novels
of passion, when the story is told with any
spark of truth and nature! And what
fastens attention, in the intercourse of
life, like any passage betraying affection
between two parties ? Perhaps we never
saw them before, and never shall meet
them again. But we see them exchange
a glance, or betray a deep en^tion, and
we are no longer strangers* We underw
46 ESSAYS.
stand them, and take the warmest interest
in the development of the romance. All
mankind love a lover. The earliest de-
monstrations of complacency and kind>
ness are nature’s most winning pictures.
It is the dawn of civility and gra.ce 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 dis-
posing her satchel ; he holds her books to
help her, and instantly it seems to him as
If she removed herself from him infinitely,
and was a sacred precinct. Among the
throng of girls he runs rudely enough, but
one alone distances him ; and these two
little neighbours, that were so close just
now, have learned to respect each other’s
personality. Or who can avert his eyes
from the engaging, half-artful, half-artless
ways of school-girls who go into the
country shops to buy a skein of silk or a
sheet of paper, and talk half an hour
about nothing with the broad-faced, good-
natured shop-boy. In the village they are
on a perfect equality, which love delights
in, and without any coquetry the happy,
affectionate nature of woman flows out in |
this pretty gossip. The girls may have
little beauty, yet plainly do they establish
between them and the good boy the most
agreeable, confiding relations, what with
their fun and their earnest, about Edgar,
and Jonas, and Almira, and who was in-
vited 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 in-
cident 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 dis-
paraging words. For persons are love’s
world, and the coldest philosopher cannot
recount the debt of the young soul wander-
ing here in nature to the power of love
without being tempted to unsay, as trea-
sonable to nature, aught derogatory to
the social instincts. For, though the
celestial rapture falling out of heaven
seizes only upon those of tender age,
and although a beauty overpowering all
analysis or comparison, and putting us
quite beside ourselves, we can seldom see
Vter thirty' years, yet the remembrance of
these visions outlasts all othet 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 re-
vising their experience, that they have no
fairer page in their life’s book than the
delicious memory of some passages where-
in 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 expe-
rience in particulars what it may, no man
ever forgot the visitations of that power
to his heart and brain, which created all
things new ; which was the dawn to him
of music, poetry, and art ; which made the
face of nature radiant with purple light ;
the morning and night varied enchant-
ments ; when a single tone of one voice
could make the heart bound, and the most
trivial circumstance associated with one
form is put in the amber of memory ;
when he became all eye when one was
present, and all memory when one was
gone : when the youth becomes a watcher
of windows, and studious of a glove, a
veil, a ribbon, or the wheels of a carriage ;
when no place is too solitary, and none too
silent for him who has richer company
and sweeter conversation in his new
thoughts, than any old friends, though
best and purest, can give him ; for the
figures, the motions, the words of the be-
loved object, are not like other images
written in water, but, as Plutarch said,
“ enamelled in fire,” and make the study
of midnight.
•‘Thou art not gone being gone, where’er
thou art,
Thou leav’st in him thy watchful eyes, in
him thy loving heart,”
In the noon and 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 moonlight
was a pleasing fever, eind the stars were
letters, and the flowers ciphers, and the
LOVE.
ftif was coined into song ; when all busi-
ness seemed an impertinence, and all the
men and women running to and fro in the
streets mere pictures.
The passion rebuilds the world for the
youth. It makes all things alive and sig-
nificant. Nature grows conscious. Every
bird on the boughs of the tree sings now
to his heart and soul. The notes are
almost articulate. The clouds have faces
as he looks on them. The trees of the
forest, the waving grass, and the peeping
flowers have grown intelligent ; and he
almost fears to trust them with the secret
which they seem to invite. Yet nature
soothes and sympathises. 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 mad-
man. He is a palace of sweet sounds and
sights; he dilates; he is twice a man ; he
walks with arms akimbo; he soliloquises;
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 percep-
tions of natural beauty have made him
love music and verse. It is a fact often
observed, that men have written good
verses under the inspiration of passion,
who cannot write well under any other
circumstances. j
The like force has the passion over all
his nature. It expands the sentiment ; it
makes the clown gentle, and gives the
coward heart. Into the most pitiful and
abject it will infuse a heart and courage
to defy the world, so only it have the
countenance of the beloved object. In
giving him to another, it still more gives
him to himself. He is a new man, with
new perceptions, new and keener pur-
poses, and a religious solemnity of cha-
racter and aims. He does not longer
appertain to his family and society ; he is
somewhat ; he is a person ; he is a soul.
And here let us examine a little nearer
the nature of that influence which is thus
potent over the human youth. Beauty,
whose revelation to man we now celebrate,
welcome as the sun wherever it pleases to
shine, which pleases everybody with it
And with themselves, seems sufficient to
47
itself. The lover cannot paint his maiden
to his fancy poor and solitary. Like a
tree in flower, so much soft, budding,
informing loveliness is society for itself,
and she teaches his eye why Beauty was
pictured with Loves and Graces attending
her steps. Her existence makes the world
rich. Though she extrudes all other
persons from his attention as cheap and
unworthy, she indemnifies him by carry-
ing out her own being into somewhat
impersonal, large, mundane, so that the
maiden stands to him for a representative
of all select things and virtues. For that
reason, the lover never sees personal re-
semblances in his mistress to her kindred
or to others. His friends find in her a
likeness to her mother, or her sisters, or
to persons not of her blood. The lover
sees no resemblance except to summer
evenings and diamond mornings, to rain-
bows, and the song of birds.
The ancients called beauty the flowering
of virtue. Who can analyse the nameless
charm which glances from one and another
face and form ? We are touched with
emotions of tenderness and complacency,
but we cannot find whereat this dainty
emotion, this wandering gleam, points.
It is destroyed for the imagination by any
attempt to refer it to organisation. Nor
does it point to any relations of friendship
or love known and described in society
but, as it seems to me, to a quite other
unattainable sphere, to relations of trans-
cendent delicacy 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 excellent things, which all have this
rainbow character, defying all attempts
at appropriation and use. What else did
Jean Paul Richter signify, when he said
to music, Away 1 away 1 tliou speakest
to me of things which in all my endless
life I have not lound, 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 in-
comprehensible, when it is passing out of
criticism, and can no longer be defined by
compass and measuring-wand, but de-
mands an active imagination to go with
it, and to say what it is in the act of doing.
The god or hero of the sculptor is always
represented in a transition from tliat which
is representable to the senses, to that
which is not. Then first it ceases to be a
stone. The same remark holds o^paint-
ing. And of poetry, the success is not
ESSAYS.
4 »
attained when !t lulls and satisfies, but
when it astonishes and fires us with new
endeavours after the unattainable. Con-
cerning 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 dissatis-
fies us with any end ; when it becomes a
story without an end ; when it suggests
gleams and visions, and not earthly satis-
factions ; when it makes the beholder feel
his unworthiness ; when he cannot feel |
his right to it, though he were Coesar ; he
cannot feel more right to it than to the
firmament and the splendours of a sunset.
Hence arose the saying, ” If I love you,
what is that to you ?” We say so, be-
cause we feel that what we love is not in
your will, but above it. It is not you, but
your radiance. It is that which you know
not in yourself, and can never know.
This agrees well with that high philo-
sophy of Beauty which the ancient writers
delighted in ; for they said that the soul
of man, embodied here on earth, went
roaming up and down, in quest of that
other world of its own, out of which it
came into this, but was soon stupefied by
the light of the natural sun and unable to
see any other objects than those of this
world, which are but shadows of real
things. Therefore, the Deity sends the
glory of youth before the soul, that it may
avail itself of beautiful bodies as aids to
its recollection of the celestial good and
fair ,* and the man beholding such a person
in the female sex runs to her, and finds
the highest joy in contemplating the form,
movement, and intelligence of this person,
because it suggests to him that which is
withic the beauty, and the cause of the
beauty.
If, however, from too much conversing
with material objects, the soul was gross,
and misplaced its satisfaction in the body,
it reaped nothing but sorrow ; body being
unable to fulfil the promise which beauty
holds out; but if, accepting the hint of
these visions and suggestions which beauty
makes to his mind, the soul passes through
the body, and falls to admire strokes of
character, and the lovers contemplate one
another in their discourses and their ac-
tions, 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 the fire
by shining on the hearth, they become
pure a^d hallowed. By conversation with
that which is in itself excellent rnagnaal-
mous, 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 society of all true and pure
souls. In the particular society of his
mate, ha attains a clearer sight of any
spot, any taint, which her beauty has con-
tracted from this world, and is able to
point it out, and this with mutual joy that
they are now able, without offence, to
indicate blemishes and hindrances in each
other, and give to each all help and com-
fort in curing the same. And, beholding
in many souls the traits of the divine
beauty, and separating in each soul that
which is divine from the taint which it
has contracted in the world, the lover
ascends to the highest beauty, to the love
and knowledge of the Divinity, by steps
on this ladder of created souls.
Somewhat like this have the truly wise
told us of love in all ages. The doctrine
is not old, nor is it new. If Plato, Plu
tarch, and Apuleius taught it, so have
Petrarch, Angelo, and Milton. H awaits
a truer unfolding in opposition and rebuke
to that subterranean prudence which pre*
sides at marriages with words that taks
hold of the upper world, whilst one eye
is prowling in the cellar, so that its
gravest discourse has a savour of hams
and powdering tubs, Worst, when this
sensualism intrudes into the education of
young women, and withers the hope and
affection of human nature, by teaching
that marriage signifies nothing but a
housewife’s thrift, and that woman’s life
has no other aim.
But this dream of love, though beau-
tiful, 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 ac-
quaintance, on politics, and geography,
and history. But things are ever grouping
themselves according to higher or more
interior laws. Neighbourhood, size, num-
bers, habits, persons, lose by degrees
their power over us. Cause and effect,
real affinities, the longing for harmony
between the soul and the circumstance,
the progressive, idealising instinct, pre-
dominate later, and the step backward
LOVB,
from the higher to the lower relations is
impossible. Thus even love, which is the
deification of persons, must become more
impersonal every day. Of this at first it
gives no hint. Little think the youth and
maiden who are glancing at each other
across crowded rooms, with eyes so full
of mutual intelligence, of the precious
fruit long hereafter to proceed from this
new, quite external stimulus. The work
of vegetation begins first in the irritability
of the bark and leaf buds. From ex-
changing glances, they advance to acts of
courtesy, of gallantry, then to fiery pas-
sion, to plighting troth, and marriage.
Passion beholds its object as a perfect
unit. The soul is wholly embodied, and
the body is wholly ensouled.
•* Her ptre and eloquent blood
Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought.
That one might almost say her body thought
Romeo, if dead, should be cut up into
little stars to make the heavens fine. ^
Life, with this pair, has no other aim,
asks no more, than Juliet — than Romeo.
Night, day, studies, talents, kingdoms,
religion, are all contained in this form
full of soul, in this soul which is all form.
Tlie lovers delight in endearments, in
avowals of love, in comparisons of their
regards. When alone, they solace them-
selves wdth the remembered image of the
other. Does that other see the same star,
the same melting cloud, read the same
book, feel the same emotion, that now
delight me ? They try and weigh their
affection, and, adding up costly ad-
vantages, friends, opportunities, proper-
ties, 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 bo harmed. But j
the lot of humanity is on tliese children.
Danger, sorrow, and pain arrive to them,
as to all. Love prays. It makes cove-
nants 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
Boul in a new and sweeter element, is yet
|k temporary state. Not always can
flowers, pearls, poetry, protestations, nor
even home in another heart, content the
awful soul that dwells in clay. It arouses
itself at last from these endearments, as
toys, and puts on the harness, and
aspires to vast and universal aims. The
soul which is in the soul of each, craving
49
a perfect beatitude, detects Incongruities,
defects, and disproportion in the behaviour
of the other. Hence arise surprise, ex-
postulation, and pain. Yet that which
drew them to each other was signs of
loveliness, signs of virtue ; and these
virtues are there, however eclipsed.
They appear and re-appear, and continue
to attract ; but the regard changes, quits
the sign, and attaches to the substance.
This repairs the wounded affection.
Meantime, as life wears on, it proves a
game of permutation and combination of
all possible positions of the parties, to
employ all the resources of each, and
acquaint each with the strength and 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.
'‘The person love does to us fit,
Like manna, has the taste of all in it.‘’
The world rolls ; the circumstances
vary every hour. The angels that inhabit
this temple of the body appear at the
windows, and the gnomes and vices also.
By all the virtues they are united. If
there be virtue, all the vices are known as
such ; they confess and flee. Their once
flaming regard is sobered by time in
either breast, and, losing in violence what
it gains in extent, it becomes a thorough
good understanding. They resign each
other, without complaint, to the good
offices which man and woman are
severally appointed to discharge in time,
and exchange the passion which once
could not lose sight of its object, for a
cheerful, disengaged furtherance, whether
present or absent, of each other’s designs.
I At last tliey discover that all which at
I first drew them together — those once
I sacred features, that magical play > of
charms — was deciduous, had a prospect-
ive 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 crisii
from early infancy, at the profus#beau^
with which the instincts deck th^ nuptiij
ESSAYS,
50
bower, and nature, and |inteileci, 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 knows not sex, nor person, nor
partiality, but which seeks virtue and
wisdom everjrwhere, to the end of increasing
virtue and wisdom. We are by nature
observers,and thereby learners. That is our
permanent state. But we are often made to
feel that our affections are but tents of a
night. Though slowly and with pain, the
objects of the affections change, as the
objects of thought do. There are moments
when the affections rule and absorb the
man, and make his happiness dependent
on a person or persons. But in health
the mind is presently seen again — its
overarching vault, bright with galaxies
of immutable lights, and the warm loves
and fears that swept over us as clouds,
must lose their finite character and blend
with God, to attain their own perfection.
But we need not fear that we can lose
anything by the progress of the soul. The
soul may be trusted to the end. That
which is so beautiful and attractive as
these relations must be succeeded and
supplanted only by what is more beautiful,
and so on for ever,
FRIENDSHIP.
A ruddy drop of manly blood
The surging sea outweighs,
The world uncertain comes and goes,
The lover rooted stays,
I fancied he was fled,
And, after many a year.
Glowed unexhausted kindliness
Like daily sunrise there.
My careful heart was free again—
O friend, my bosom said,
Through thee alone the sky is arched,
Through thee the rose is red,
All things through thee take nobler form,
And look beyond the earth,
The mill-round of our late appears
A sun-path in thy worth.
Me too thy nobleness has taught
To master my despair ;
Jhc fountains of my hidden lifs
Are through thy friendship fair.
We have a great deal more kindness than
is ever spoken. Maugre all the selfish-
ness 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 honour,
and who honour us I How many we see
in the street, or sit with in church, whom,
though silently, we warmly rejoice to be
with I Read the language of these wan-
dering eye-beams. The heart knoweth.
The effect of the indulgence of this
human affection is a certain cordial exhila-
ration. In poetry, and in common speech,
the emotions of benevolence and compla-
cency which are felt towards others are
likened to the material effects of fire ; so
Bwift, or much more swift, more active,
more cheering, are these fine inward
irradiations. From the highest degree of
passionme love, to the lowest degree of j
' goi^l-will.thejr make the sweetness of lift. I
Our intellectual and active powers in-
crease with our affection. The scholar
sits down to write, and all his year? of
meditation do not furnish him with one
good thought or happy expression ; but it
is necessary to write a letter to a friend —
and, forthwith, troops of gentle thoughts
invest themselves, on every hand, with
chosen words. See, in any house where
virtue and self-respect abide, the palpita-
tion which the approach of a stranger
causes. A commended stranger is ex-
pected and announced, and an uneasiness
betwixt pleasure and pain invades all the
hearts of a household. His arrival almosv
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 exalts conversation with
him. We talk better than we are wont.
We have the nimblest fancy, a richer
memory, and our dumb devil has taken
leave for the time. For long hours we can
continue a series of sincere, graceful, rich
communications, drawn from the oldest,
sccretest experience, so that they who sit
by, of our own kinsfolk and acquaintance,
shall feel a lively surprise at our unusual
powers. But as soon as the stranger be-
gins to intrude his partialities, his defini-
tions, his defects, into the conversation,
it is all over. He has heard the first, th#
FRIENDSHIP.
last, and best he will ever hear from us.
He Is no stranger now. Vulgarity, ignor-
ance, misapprehension are old acquaint-
ances. Now, when he comes, he may get
the order, the dress, and the dinner — but
the throbbing of the heart, and the com-
munications of the soul, no more.
What is so pleasant as these jets of
affection which make a young world for
me again ? What so delicious as a just and
firm encounter of two, in a thought, in a
feeling ? How beautiful, on their approach
to this beating heart, the steps and forms
of the gifted and the true ? The moment
we indulge our affections, the earth is
metamorphosed ; there is no winter, and
no night; all tragedies, all ennuis, vanish
— all duties even ; nothing fills the pro-
ceeding eternity but the forms all radiant
of beloved persons. Let the soul be
assured that somewhere in the universe
it should rejoin its friend, and it would be
content and cheerful alone for a tliousand
years.
I awoke this morning with devout
thanksgiving for my friends, the old and
the new. Shall I not call God the Beau-
tiful, who daily showeth Himself so to me
in His gifts ? I chide society, I embrace
solitude, and yet I am not so ungrateful
as not to see the wise, the lovely, and the
noble-minded, as from time to time they
pass my gate. Who hears me, who un-
derstands me, becomes mine — a posses-
sion 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 them-
selves, we shall by and by stand in a new
world of our own creation, and no longer
strangers and pilgrims in a traditionary
globe. My friends have come to me un-
sought. 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 in-
dividual character, relation, age, sex, cir-
cumstance, at which he usually connives,
and now makes many one. High thanks
I owe you, excellent lovers, who carryout
the world for me to new and noble depths,
and enlarge the meaning of all my
thoughts. These are new poetry of the
first Bard — poetry without stop— hymn,
ode, and epic, poetry still flowing, Apollo
and the Muses chanting still. Will these,
too, separate themselves from me again,
or som>.j of them ? I know not, but I fear
it not ; for my relation to them is so pure,
that we hold by simple affinity, and tha
Genius of my life being thus social, the
same affinity will exert its energy on
whomsoever is as noble as these men and
women, wherever I may be.
I confess to an extreme tenderness of
nature on this point. It is almost danger*^
ous to me to “ crush the sweet poison of
misused wine ” of the affections. A new
person is to me a great event, and hinders
me from sleep. I have often had fine
fancies about persons which have given
me delicious hours ,* but the joy ends in
the day ; it yields no fruit. Thought is
not bom of it; my action is very little
modified. I must feel pride in my friend's
accomplishments as if they were mine —
and a property in his virtues. I feel as
warmly when he is praised, as the lover
when he hears applause of his engaged
maiden. We over-estimate the conscience
of our friend. His goodness seems better
than our goodness, his nature finer, his
temptations less. Everything that is his —
his name, his form, his dress, books, and
instruments — fancy enhances. Our own
tliought sounds new and larger from his
moutii.
Yet the systole and diastole of the heart
are not without their analogy in the ebb
and flow of love. Friendship, like the
immortality of the soul, is too good to be
believed. The lover, beholdinghis maiden,
half knows that she is not verily that
which he worships ; and in the golden
hour of friendship, we are surprised with
shades of suspicion and unbelief. We
doubt that we bestow on our hero the
virtues in which he shines, and afterwards
worship the form to which we have as-
cribed this divine inhabitation. In strict-
ness, the soul does not respect men as it
respects itself. In strict science, all per-
sons underlie the same condition of an
infinite remoteness. Shall we fear to cool
our love by mining for the metaphysical
foundation of this Klysian 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 beauti
ful than their appearance, though it needs
finer organs for its apprehension. The
root of the plant is not unsightly to science,
though for chaplets and festoons we cut
the stem short. And I must hazard the
production of the bald fact amidst these
pleasing reveries, though it should prove
an Egyptian skull at our banquet. A maa
who stands united with his thought con-
ceives magnificently of himself. •He is
conscious of a universal succes§, eve^
ESSAYS,
$a
thougl^ bought by uniform particular fail-
ures. No advantages, no powers, no gold
or force, can be any match for him. I
cannot choose but rely on my own poverty
more than on your wealth. I cannot make
your consciousness tantamount to mine.
Only the star dazzles; the planet has a
faint, moon-like ray. I hear what you say
of the admirable parts and tried temper
of the party you praise, but I see well that
fbr 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 tlie
vast shadow of the Phenomenal includes
thee also in its pied and painted immen-
sity — 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 super-
induces the opposite. The soul environs
itself with friends, that it may enter into a
grander self-acquaintance or solitude ; and
it goes alone for a season, that it may
exalt its conversation or society. This
method betrays itself along the whole his-
tory of our personal relations. The in-
stinct of affection revives the hope of union
with our mates, and the returning sense
of insulation recalls us from the chase.
Thus every man passes his life in the
search after friendship, and if he should
record his true sentiment, he might write
a letter like this to each new candidate for
his love : —
Dear Friend,—
If I was sure of thee, sure of thy capa-
city, sure to match my mood with thine, I
should never think again of trifles in rela-
tion to thy comings and goings. I am not
very wise ; my moods are quite attainable;
and I respect thy genius ; it is to me as
yet unfathomed ; yet dare I not presume
in thee a perfect intelligence of me, and
so thou art to me a delicious torment.
Thine ever, or never.
Yet these uneasy pleasures and fine
pains are for curiosity, and not for life.
They are not to be indulged. This is to
weave cobweb, and not cloth. Our friend-
ships hurry to short and poor conclusions, !
becauie we have made them a texture of
wine ajid dreamSi instead of the tough
fibre of the human 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. We seek our
friend not sacredly, but with an adulterate
passion which would appropriate him to
ourselves. In vain. We are armed all
over with subtle antagonisms, which as
soon as we meet, begin to play, and trans-
late all poetry into stale prose. Almost
all people descend to meet. All associa-
tion must be a compromise, and, what ia
worst, the very flower and aroma of the
flower of each of the beautiful natures
disappears as they approach each other.
What a perpetual disappointment is
actual society, even of the virtuous and
gifted ! After interviews have been com-
passed with long foresight, we must be
tormented presently by baffled blows, by
sudden, unseasonable apathies, by epilep-
sies 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 equad 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 asylum.
“ The valiant warrior famoused for fight.
After a hundred victories, once fo^lled,
Is from the book of honour razed quite.
And all the rest forgot for which he toiled"
Our impatience is thus sharply rebuked.
Bashfulness and apathy are a tough husk,
in which a delicate organisation is pro-
tected from premature ripening. It would
be lost, if it knew itself before any of the
best souls were yet ripe enough to know
and own it. Respect the naturlangsamkcit
which hardens the ruby in a million years,
and works in duration, in which Alps and
Andes come and go as rainbows, The
good spirit of our life has no heaven which
is the price of rashness. Love, which is
the essence of God, is not for levity, but
for the total worth of man. Let us not
have this childish luxury in our regards,
but the austerest worth ; let us approach
our friend with an audacious trust in the
truth of his heart, in the breadth, impos-
sible to be overturned, of his foundations.
FRIENDSHIP
53
The attractions of this subject are not
to be resisted, and I leave, for the time,
all account of subordinate social benefit,
to speak of that select and sacred relation
which is a kind of absolute, and which
oven 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 experience, what do we know
of nature, or of ourselves ? Not one step
has man taken toward the solution of the
problem of his destiny. In one condemna-
tion of folly stand the whole universe of
men. But the sweet sincerity of joy and
peace, which I draw from this alliance
with my brother’s soul, is the nut itself,
whereof all nature and all thought is but
the husk and shell. Happy is the house
that shelters a friend I It might well be
built, like a festal bower or arch, to enter-
tain him a single day. Happier, if he
know the solemnity of that relation, and
honour its law ! He who offers himself a
candidate for that covenant comes up,
like an Olympian, to the great games,
where the first-born of the world are the
competitors. He proposes himself for
contests where Time, Want, Danger, are
in the lists, and he alone is victor who
has truth enough in his constitution to
preserve the delicacy of his beauty from
the wear and tear of all these. The gifts
of fortune may be present or absent, but
all the speed in that contest depends on
intrinsic nobleness, and the contempt of
trifles. There are two elements that go
to the composition of friendship, each so
sovereign that I can detect no superiority
in either, no reason why either should be
first named. One is Truth. A friend is a
person with whom I may be sincere.
Before him I may think aloud. I am
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 authority, only to the highest rank,
that being permitted to speak the truth,
as having none above it to court or con-
form unto. Every man alone is sincere.
At the entrance of a second person, hypo-
crisy begins. We party and fend the
approach of our fellow-man by compli-
ments, by gossip, by amusements, by
affairs. We cover up our thought from
him under a hundred folds. I knew a
man, who, under a certain religious frenzy,
cast off this drapery, and, omitting all
compliment and common-place, spoke to
the conscience of every person he en-
countered, 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 lo
the advantage of bringing every man of
his acquaintance into true relations with
him. No man would think of speaking
falsely with him, or of putting him off with
any chat of markets or reading-rooms.
But every man was constrained by so
much sincerity to the like plain-dealir.g,
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 humoured j
he has some fame, some talent, soma
whim of religion or philanthropy in his
head, that is not to be questioned, and
which spoils all conversation w’ith him.
But a friend is a sane man who exercises
not my ingenuity, but mo. My friend gives
mo entertainment without requiring any
stipulation on my part. A friend, there-
fore, is a sort of paradox in nature. I
who alone am, I who see nothing in nature
whose existence I can affirm with equal
evidenco to my own, behold now tbi
semblance of my being, in ail 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 i.s ten-
derness. We are holden to men by ery
sort of tie, by blood, by pride, by fear, by
hope, by lucre, by lust, by hate, by admi-
ration, by every circumstance, and ba/Jga
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 becomea
dear to me, I have touched the goal of
fortune. I find very little written directly
to the heart of this matter in books. And
vet 1 have one text which I cannot chooM
but remember. My author siya: **1
offer myself faintly and bluntly to those
54
ESSAYS.
♦(Those I effectually am, and tender myself
least to him to whom I am the most de-
voted.” I wish that friendship sliould
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 ex-
change of gifts, of useful loans ; it is good
neighbourhood ; it watches with the sick ;
it holds the pall at the funeral ; and quite
loses sight of the delicacies and nobility
of the relation. But though we cannot find j
the god under this disguise of a sutler, yet,
on the other hand, we cannot forgive the
poef if he spins his thread too fine, and
does not substantiate his romance by the
municipal virtues of justice, punctuality,
fidelity, and pity. I have the prostitution
of the name of friendship to signify modish
and worldly alliances. I must prefer the
company of plough-boys and tin-pedlers,
to the silken and perfumed amity which
celebrates its days of encounter by a friv-
olous display, by rides in a curricle, and
dinners at the best taverns. The end of
friendship is a commerce the most strict
and homely that can be joined ; more
strict than any of which we have expe-
rience. It is for aid and comfort through
ail the relations and passages of life and
death. It is fit for serene days, and grace-
ful gifts, and country rambles, but also for
rough roads and hard fare, shipwreck,
poverty, and persecution. It keeps com-
pany with the sallies of the wit and the
traces of religion. We are to dignify to
each other the daily needs and offices of
man’s life, and embellish it by courage,
wisdom, and unity. It should never fall
into something usual and settled, but
should be alert and inventive, and add
rhyme and reason to what was drudgery.
Friendship may be said to require na-
tures so rare and costly, each so well tem-
pered and so happily adapted, and withal
so circumstanced (for even in that par-
ticular, a poet says, love demands that the
parties be altogether paired), that its satis-
faction can very seldom be assured. It
cannot subsist in its perfection, say some
of those who are learned in this warm lore
of the heart, betwixt more than two. I
am not quite so strict in my terms, perhaps
because I have never known so high a
fellowship as others. I please my imagi-
nation more with a circle of godlike men
and women variously related to each other,
and betvteen whom subsists a lofty intel-
ligence. But I find this law of an to one
peremptory for conversation, which is the
practice and consummation of friendships
Do not mix waters too much. The best
mix as ill as good and bad. You shall
have very useful and cheering discourse
at several times with two several men,
but let all three of you come together,
and you shall not have one new and
hearty word. Two may talk and one may
hear, but three cannot take part in a con-
versation of the most sincere and search-
ing sort. In good company, there is never
such discourse between two, across the
table, as takes place when you leave them
alone. In good company, the individuals
merge their egotism into a social soul
exactly coextensive with the several con-
sciousnesses there present. No partialities
of friend to friend, no fondnesses of brother
to sister, of wife to husband, are there per-
tinent, but quite otherwise. Only he may
then speak who can sail on the common
thought of the party, not poorly limited to
his own. Now this convention, which good
sense demands, destroys the high freedom
of great conversation, which requires an
absolute running of two souls into one.
No two men but, being left alone with
each other, enter into simpler relations.
Yet it is affinity that determines which
two shall converse. Unrelated men give
little joy to each other ; will never suspect
the latent powers of each. VVe talk some-
times of a great talent for conversation,
as if it were a permanent property in
some individuals. Conversation is an
evanescent relation — no more. A man is
reputed to have thought and eloquence ;
he cannot, for all that, say a word to his
cousin or his uncle. They accuse his
silence with as much reason as they
would blame the insignificance of a dial
in the shade. In the sun it will mark the
hour. Among those who enjoy his thought,
he will regain his tongue.
Friendship requires that rare mean
betwixt likeness and unlikeness, that
piques each with the presence of power
and of consent in the other party. Let
me be alone to the end of the world,
rather than that my friend should over-
step, by a word or a look, his real sym-
pathy. I am equally baulked by anta-
gonism 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 con-
cession. Better be a nettle in the side of
your friend than bis echo, The cooditiozr
FRIENDSHIP,
which high frieiuuship demands is ability
to do without it. That high office re-
quires great and sublime parts. There
must be very two, before there can be
very one. Let it be an alliance of two
large, formidable natures mutually be-
held, mutually feared, before yet they re-
cognise the deep identity which beneath
these disparities unites them.
He only is iit for this society who is
magnanimous ; who is sure that great-
ness and goodness are always economy ;
who is not swift to intermeddle with his
fortunes. Let him not intermeddle with
this. Leave to the diamond its ages to
grow, nor expect to accelerate the births
of the eternal. Friendship demands a
religious treatment. We talk of choosing
our friends, but friends are self-elected.
Kcverence 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 honour, if you must needs
hold him close to your person. Stand
aside; give these merits room; let them
mount and expand. Are you the friend
of your friend’s buttons, or of his thought ?
To a great heart he will still be a stranger .
in a thousand particulars, that he may j
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.
J.et us buy our entrance to this guild
by a long probation. Why should we de-
secrate noble and beautiful souls by in-
truding on them ? Why insist on rash
personal relations w'ith your friend ?
Why go to his house, and know his mother
and brother and sisters ? Why be visited
by him at your own ? Are these things
material to our covenant? Leave this
touching and clawing. Let him be to me
a spirit. A message, a thought, a sin-
cerity, a glance from him, I want, but not
news, nor pottage. I can get politics,
and chat, and neighbourly conveniences
from cheaper companions. Should not
the society of my friend be to me poetic,
pure, universal, and great as nature itself ?
Ought I to feel that our tie is profane in
comparison with yonder bar of cloud tliat
sleeps on the horizon, or that clump of
waving grass that divides the brook ?
Let us not vilify, but raise it to that
standard. That great, defying eye, that
acornful beauty of his mien and action,
do not pique yourself on reducing, but
rather fortify and enhance. Worship his
superiorities; wish him not less by m
55
thought, but hoard and them all.
Guard him as thy counterpart. Let him
bo to thee for ever a sort of beautiful
enemy, untamable, devoutly revered, and
not a trivial conveniency to be soon out-
grown 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
ithe 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 impatence for its opening.
We must be our own before we can b«
another’s. There is at least this satisfac-
in crime, according to the Latin proverb :
you can speak to your accomplice on even
terms. Crimen quos inqninat, aquat. To
those whom we admire and love, at first
we cannot. Yet the least defect of self-
possession vitiates, in my judgment, the
entire relation. There can never be deep
peace between two spirits, never mutual
respect, until, in their dialogue, each
stands for the whole world.
What is so great as friendship, let us
carry with what grandeur of spirit vve can.
Let us be silent — so we may hear the
whisper of the gods. Let us not inter-
fere. Who set you to cast about what you
should say to the select souls, or how to
say anything to such ? No matter how
ingenious, no matter how graceful and
bland. There are innumerable degrees
o.^ folly and wisdom, and for you to say
aught is to be frivolous. Wait, and thy
heart shall speak. Wait until the neces-
sary and everlasting overpowers you,
until day and night avail themselves of
your lips. The only reward of virtue is
virtue ; the only way to have a friend is to
be one. You shall not come nearer a
man by getting into his house. If unlike,
his soul only flees the faster from you, and
you shall never catch a true glance of his
eye. We see the noble afar off, and they
repel us; why should we intrude ? Lata
—very late— we perceive that no arrange-
ments, no introductions, no consuetudes
or habits of society, would be of any avail
to establish us in such relations with them
as we desire — but solely the upij^e oi
nature in us to the same degree it is ia
them ; then shall we meet as water with
F.
ESSAYS.
Sfi
water; and if we should not meet them I
then, we shall not want them, for
we are already they. In the last analysis,
love is only the reflection of man’s own
worthiness from other men. Men have
Bometimes 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 j
the universal power, souls are now acting, |
enduring, and daring, which can love us,
and which we can love. Wo may con-
gratulate ourselves that tho period of
nonage, of follies, of blunders, and of
shame, is passed in solitude, and when
we are finished men, we shall grasp
heroic hands in heroic hands. Only be
admonished by what you already see, not
to strike leagues of friendship with cheap
persons, where no friendship can be. Our
impatience betrays us into rash and
foolish alliances which no God attends.
By persisting in your path, though you
forfeit the little you gain the great. You
demonstrate yourself, so as to put your-
self out of the reach of false relations,
and you draw to you the first-born of the
world — those rare pilgrims whereof only
one or two wander in nature at once, and
before whom the vulgar great show as
spectres and shadows merely.
It is foolish to be afraid of making our
ties too spiritual, as if so we could lose
any genuine love. Whatever correction
of our popular viev/s we make from
insight, nature will be sure to bear us out
in, and though it seem to rob us of some
joy, will repay us with a greater. Let us
feel, if we will, the absolute insulation of
man. We are sure that we have all in us.
We go to Europe, or we pursue persons,
or we read books, in the instinctive faith
that these will call it out and reveal us to
ourselves. Beggars all. The persons are
such as we; the Europe an old faded gar-
ment of dead persons ; the books their
ghosts. Let us drop this idolatry. Let
us give over this mendicancy. Let us
even bid our dearest friends farewell, and
defy them, saying, Who are you ? Un-
hand me : I will be dependent no more.’*
Ah I seest thou not, O brother, that thus
we part only to meet again on a higher
platform, and only be more each other’s
becauM wa arc more our own ? A friend
is Janusfaoed : he looks to the past and
future. He is the child of all my fore-
going hours, the prophet of those to come
I and the harbinger of a greater friend.
I do then wi& my friends as I do with
my books. I would have them where I
can find them, but I seldom use them.
We must have society on our own terms,
and admit or exclude it on the slightest
cause. I cannot afford to speak much
with my friend. If he is great, he makes
me so great that I cannot descend to con-
verse. In the great days, presentiments
hover before me in the firmament. I
ought then to dedicate myself to them.
I go in that I may seize them, I go out
that I may seize them. I fear 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 seeking,
this spiritual astronomy, or search of
stars, and come down to warm sympathies
I with you ; but then I know well I shall
mourn always the vanishing of my
mighty gods. It is true, next week I
shall have languid moods, when I can
well afford to occupy myself with foreign
objects; then I shall regret the lost
literature of your mind, and wish you
were by my side again. But if you come,
perhaps you will fill my mind only with
new visions, not with yourself but with
your lustres, and I shall not be able any
more than now to converse with you. So
I will owe to my friends this evanescent
intercourse. I will receive from them,
not what they have, but what they are.
They shall give me that which properly
they cannot give, but which emanates
from them. But they shall not hold mo
by any relations less subtile and pure.
We will meet as though we met not, and
part as though we parted not.
It has seemed to me lately more
possible than I knew, to carry a friend-
ship greatly, on one side, w’ithout duo
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 wain into ungrateful space,
and only a small part on the reflecting
planet. Let your greatness educate tho
crude and cold companion. If he if
unequal, he will presently pass away;
but thou art enlarged by thy own shin-
ing, and, no longer a mate Cor frogs and
PRUDENCE.
57
worms, dost soar and bum 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 ob-
ject, and dwells and broods on the eternal,
and when the poor interposed mask
crumbles, it is not sad, but feels rid of so
much earth, and feels its independency
the surer. Yet these things may hardly
be said without a sort of treachery to the
relation. The essence of friendship is
entireness, a total magnanimity and trust.
It must not surmise or provide for in-
firmity. It treats its object as a god, that
it may defy both,
PRUDENCE.
Theme no poet gladly sung,
Fair to old and foul to young,
Scorn not thou the love of parts,
And the articles of arts.
Grandeur of the perfect sphere
Thanks the atoms that cohere.
What right have I to write on Prudence,
whereof I have little, and that of the ne-
gative sort ? My prudence consists in
avoiding and going without, not in
the inventing of means and methods,
not in adroit steering, not ;in gentle
repairing. I have no skill to make
money spend well, no genius in my
economy, and whoever sees my garden
discovers that I must have some other
garden. Yet I love facts, and hate
lubricity, and people without perception.
Then I have the same title to write on
prudence, that I have to write on poetry
or holiness. We write from aspiration
and antagonism, as well as from expe-
rience. We paint those qualities which
we do not possess. The poet admires the
man of energy and tactics ; the merchant
breeds his son for the church or the bar ;
and where a man is not vain and egotistic,
you shall find what he has not by his
praise. Moreover, it would be hardly
honest in me not to balance these fine
lyric words of Love and Friendship with
words of coarser sound, and, whilst my
debt to my senses is real and constant,
not to own it in passing, i
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 com-
plying with physical conditions, and health
of mind by the laws of the intellect.
The world of the senses is a world of
ishows ; it does not exist for itself, but has
a symbolic character ; and a true prudence
or law of shows recognises the co-presence
o{ Other laws, and knows that its own
office is subaltern ; knows that it is sur-
face and not centre where it works. Pru-
dence is false wnen detached. It is legiti-
mate when it is the Natural History of the
soul incarnate: when it unfolds the beauty of
laws within the narrow scope of the senses.
There are all degrees of proficiency in
knowledge of the world. It is sufficient,
to our present purpose, to indicate three.
One class live to the utility of the symbol ;
esteeming health and wealth a final good.
Another class live above this mark to the
beauty of the symbol ; as the poet and
artist, and the naturalist, and man of
science. A third class live above the
beauty of the symbol to the beauty of the
thing signified ; these are wise men. The
first class have common sense ; the second,
taste; and the third, spiritual perception.
Once in a long time, a man traverses the
whole scale, and sees and enjoys the
symbol solidly ; then also has a clear eye
for its beauty, and, lastly, whilst he pitches
his tent on this sacred volcanic isle of
nature, does not offer to build houses and
barns thereon, reverencing the splendour
of the God which he sees bursting through
each chink and cranny.
The world is filled with the proverbs
and acts and winkings of a base prudence,
which is a devotion to matter, as if we
possessed no other faculties than the
palate, the nose, the touch, the eye and
ear ; a prudence which adores the Rule of
Three, which never subscribes, which
never gives, which seldom lends, and asks
but one question of any project — Will it
bake bread ? This is a disease like a
thickening of the skin until the vital
organs are destroyed. But culture, re
vealing the high origin of the apparent
world, and aiming at the perfection of the
man as the end, degrades everything else,
as health and bodily life, into means. It
sees prudence not to be a several faculty,
but a name for wisdom and virtpe con-
versing with the body and its wants. Cnl«
S8 ESSAYS.
tivaied men always feel and speak so, as
if a great fortune, the achievement of a
civil or social measure, great personal in-
fluence, a graceful and commanding
address, had their value as proofs of the
energy of the spirit. If a man lose his
balance, and immerse himself in any
trades or pleasure for their own sake, he
may be a good wheel or pin, but he is not
a cultivated man.
The spurious prudence, making the
senseiJ final, is the god of sots and cowards,
and is the subject of all comedy. It is
nature’s joke, and therefore literature’s.
The true prudence limits this sensualism
by admitting the knowledge of an internal
and real world. This recognition once
'made— the order of the world and the dis-
tribution of affairs and times being studied
with the co-perception of their subordinate
place, will reward any degree of attention.
For our existence, thus apparently at-
tached in nature to the sun and the re-
turning moon and the periods which they
mark — so susceptible to climate and to
country, so alive to social good and evil,
80 fond of splendour, 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 con-
ditioned, as they are, and keeps these
laws, that it may enjoy their proper good.
It respects space and time, climate, want,
sleep, the law of polarity, growth and
death. There revolve to give bound and
period to his being, on all sides, the sun
and moon, the great formalists in the sky:
here lies stubborn matter, and will not
swerve from its chemical routine. Here is
a planted globe, pierced and belted with
natural laws, and fenced and distributed
externally with civil partitions and pro-
perties which impose new restraints on the
young inhabitant.
We eat of the bread which grows in the
field. We live by the air which blows
around us, and we are poisoned by the air
that is too cold or too hot, too dry or too
wet. Time, which shows so vacant, in-
divisible, 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 inju-
rious cC very awkward word — these eat up
the hours, Do what wo can, summer will
have its flies : if we walk in the woods,
we must feed mosquitoes : if we go a-fish*
ing, we must expect a wet coat. Then
climate is a great impediment to idle
persons : we often resolve to give up the
care of the weather, but still we regard
the clouds and the rain.
^ We are instructed by these petty expe-
riences which usurp the hours and years.
The hard soil and four months of snow
make the inhabitant of the northern
temperate zone wiser and abler than his
fellow who enjoys the fixed smile of the
tropics. The islander may ramble all
day at will. At night, he may sleep on a
mat under the moon, and wherever a wild
date-tree grows, nature has, without a
prayer even, spread a table for his morn-
ing meal. The northener 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 labour lay to, without some
new acquaintance with nature ; and as
nature is inexhaustibly significant, the in-
habitants of these climates have always
excelled the southerner in force. Such is
the value of these matters, that a man who
knows other things can never know too
much of these. Let him have accurate
perceptions. Let him, if he have hands,
handle; if eyes, measure and discriminate;
let him accept and hive every fact of
chemistry, natural history, and economics ;
j the more ho has, the less is he willing to
[ spare any one. Time is always bringing
[ the occasions that disclose their value,
I Some wisdom comes out of every natural
I 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 shop than in the tactics of
party or of war. The good husband finds
method as efficient in the packing of fire-
w^ood in a shed, or in the harvesting of
fruits in the cellar, as in Peninsular cam-
paigns 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, screw-driver,
and chisel. Herein he tastes an old joy
of youth and childhood, the cat-like love
of garrets, presses, and corn-chambers,
and of the conveniences of long house-
keeping. His garden or his poultry-yard
tells him many pleasant anecdotes, One
PRUDBNCB,
might find argument for optimism in the
abundant flow of the saccharine element
of pleasure in every suburb and extremity
of the good world. Let a man keep the
law — any law — and his way will be strown
with satisfactions. There is more differ-
ence 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 be-
lieve 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 im-
perfect perception. Dr. Johnson is re-
ported to have said, “ If the child says he
looked out of this window, when he locked
out of that — whip him." Our American
character is marked by a more than
average delight in accurate perception,
which is shown by the currency of the by-
word, “ No mistake." But the discom-
fort of unpunctuality, of confusion of
thought about facts, of inattention to the
Wyants 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 bo disturbed by
rash and stupid hands, instead of honey,
it will yield us bees. Our words and ac-
tions 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 a 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
Bee 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 w'orks
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 hitting, in all the figures
we draw, the right centre of gravity, I
mean, the placing the figures firm upon
their feet, making the hands grasp, and
fastening the eyes on the spot where they
should look. Even lifeless figures, as
vessels and stools — let them be drawn
ever so correctly — lose all effect so
•oon as they lack the resting upon their
centre of i^avity, and have a certain
S9
swimming and oscillating appearance,
The Raphael, in the Dresden gallery,
(the only greatly affecting picture which I
have seen) is the quietest and most pas-
sionless piece you can imagine ; a coupla
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, use
plain speech, give us facts, and honour
tlieir owm senses with trust.
But what man shall dare tax another
with imprudence ? Who is prudent ? The
men wo call greatest are least in this
kingdom. There is a certain fatal dislo-
cation in our relation to nature, distorting
our modes of living, and making every
law our enemy, which seems at last to
have aroused all the wit and virtue in the
world to ponder the question of Reform.
We must call the highest prudence to
counsel, and ask why health and beauty
and genius sliould now be the exception,
rather than the rule, of human nature ?
We do not know the properties of plants
and animals and the laws of nature
through our sympathy with the same ; but
this remains the dream of poets. Poetry
and prudence should be coincident. Poets
should be lawgivers ; that is, the boldest
lyric inspiration should not chide and
insult, but should announce and lead, the
civil code, and the day’s work. But now
the two things seem irreconcilably parted.
We have violated law upon law, until wa
stand amidst ruins, and when by chanca
wc 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 organisa-
tion should be universal. Genius should
be the child of genius, and every child
should be inspired ; but now it is not to
be predicted of any child, and nowhere is
it pure. We call partial half-lights, by
courtesy, genius; talent which converts
itself to money ; talent which glitters to-
day, that it may dine and sleep well to-
morrow ; and society is officered Iw men
of parts t as they are properly callM, and
not by divine men, These use their gifti
ESSAYS.
6d
to lu3k^iry, not to abolish it. Genius difficulties, at last sinking, chilled, ex>
is always ascetic ; and piety and love, hausted, and fruitless, like a giant slaught^
Appetite shows to the finer souls as a ered by pins ?
disease, and they find beauty in rites and Is it not better that a man should accept
bounds that resist it. the first pains and mortifications of this
We have found out fine names to cover sort, which nature is not slack ^ sending
our sensuality withal, but no gifts can him, as hints that he must expect no
raise intemperance. The man of talent other good than the just fruit of his own
affects to call his transgressions of the labour and self-denial? Health, bread,
laws of the senses trivial, and to count climate, social position, have their im«
them nothing considered with his devotion portance, and he will give them their due.
to his art. His art never taught him Let him esteem Nature a perpetual coun*
lewdoess, nor the love of wine, nor the sellor, and her perfections the exact
wish to reap where he had not sowed, measure of our deviations. Let him
His art is less for every deduction from make the night night, and the day day.
his holiness, and less for every defect of Let him control the habit of expense,
common sense. On him who scorned the Let him see that as much wisdom may be
world, as he said, the scorned world wreaks expended on a private economy as on an
its revenge. He that despiseth small empire, and as much wisdom may be
things will perish by little and little, drawn from it. The laws of the world are
Goethe’s Tasso is very likely to be a written out for him on every piece of
pretty fair historical portrait, and that is money in his hand. There is nothing he
true tragedy. It does not seem to me so will not be the better for knowing, were
genuine grief when some tyrannous it only the wisdom of Poor Richard ; or
Richard the Third oppresses and slays a the State Street prudence of buying by
score of innocent persons, as when An- the acre to sell by the foot ; or the thrift
tonio and Tasso, both apparently right, of the agriculturist, to stick a tree be-
wrong each other. One living after the tween whiles, because it will grow whilst
maxims of this world, and consistent and he sleeps ; or the prudence which con-
true to them, the other fired with all divine sists in husbanding little strokes of the
sentiments, yet grasping also at the plea- tool, little portions of time, particles of
suresof sense, without submitting to their stock, and small gains, The cry of pru-
law. That is a grief we all feel, a knot dence may never shut. Iron, if kept at
we cannot untie, Tasso’s is no infrequent the ironmonger’s, will rust ; beer, if not
case in modern biography. A man of brewed in the right state of the atmos-
ffenius, of an ardent temperament, reck- phere, will sour ; timber of ships will rot
less of physical laws, self-indulgent, be- at sea, or, if laid up high and dry, will
comes presently unfortunate, querulous, a strain, warp, and dry-rot ; money, if kept
discomfortable cousin,” a thorn to him- by us, yields no rent, and is liable to loss ;
and to others. if invested, is liable to depreciation of
The scholar shames us by his bifold the particular kind of stock. Strike, says
lie. Whilst something higher than pru- the smith, the iron is white ; keep the
dence is active, he is admirable; when rake, says the haymaker, as nigh the
common sense is wanted, he is an encum- scythe as you can, and the cart as nigh
brance. Yesterday, Caesar was not so the rake. Our Yankee trade is reputed
great ; to-day, the felon at the gallows’ to be very much on the extreme of this
foot is not more miserable. Yesterday, prudence. It takes bank-notes — good,
radiant with the light of an ideal world, bad, clean, ragged — and saves itself by
in which he lives, the first of men ; and the speed with which it passes them off.
now oppressed by wants and by sickness, Iron cannot rust, nor beer sour, nor
for which he must thank himself. He timber rot, nor calicoes go out of fashion,
resembles the pitiful drivellers, whom nor m^-ney stocks depreciate, in the few
travellers describe as frequenting the swift moments in which the V ankee suffers
bazaars of Constantinople, who skulk any one of them to remain in his posses-
about all day, yellow, emaciated, ragged, sion. In skating over thin ice, our safety
sneaking ; and at evening, when the is in our speed.
bazaars are open, slink to the opium-shop, Let him learn a prudence of a higher
swallow their morsel, and become tran- strain. Let him learn that everything in
quil fif^d glorified seers. And who has nature, even motes and feathers, go by
not see^ the tragedy of imprudent genius, law and not by luck, and that what ha
itruggling for years with paltry pecuniary sows he reaps. By diligence and wiU
PRUDENCE.
61
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 fellow-creatures
wait. How many words and promises
are promises of conversation I 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 slender human word among the
storms, distances, and accidents that
drive us hither and thither, and, by per-
sistency, make the paltry force of one
man reappear to redeem its pledge, after
months and years, in the most distant
climates.
We must not try to write the laws of
any one virtue, looking at that only.
Human nature loves no contradictions,
but is symmetrical. The prudence which
secures an outward well-being is not to
be studied by one set of men, whilst
heroism and holiness are studied by an-
other, but they are reconcilable. Prudence
concerns the present time, persons, pro-
perty, 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, tlie
proper administration of outward things
will always rest on a just apprehension of
their cause and origin, that is, the good
man will be the wise man, and the single-
hearted, the politic man. Every violation
of truth is not only a sort of suicide in the
liar, but is a stab at the health of human
society. On the most profitable lie, the
course of events presently lays a destruc-
tive tax; whilst frankness invites frank-
ness, puts the parties on a convenient
footing, and makes their business a friend-
ship. Trust men, and they will be true
to you ; treat them greatly, and they will
show themselves great, though they make
an exception in your favour to all their
rules of trade.
So, in regard to disagreeable and for-
midable things, prudence does not con-
sist in evasion, or in flight, but in courage.
He who wishes to walk in the most peace-
ful parts of life with any serenity must
screw himself up to resolution. Let him
front the object of his worst apprehension,
and his stoutness will commonly make
his fear groundless. The Latin proverb
says, that “ in battles the eye is fiist over-
come.” Entire self-possession may make
a battle very little more dangerous to life
than a match at foils or at football. Ex-
amples are cited by soldiers, of men who
have seen the cannon pointed, and the
fire given to it, and who have stepped
aside from the path of the ball. The
terrors of the storm are chiefly confined
to the parlour and the cabin. The drover,
the sailor, buffets it all day, and his health
renews itself at as vigorous a pulse under
the sleet, as under the sun of June,
In the occurrence of unpleasant things
among neighbours fear comes readily to
heart, and magnifies the consequence of
the other party; but it is a bad coun-
sellor. Every man is actually weak and
apparently strong. To himself, he seems
weak; to others, formidable. You are
afraid of Grim ; but Grim also is afraid
of you. You are solicitous of the good-
will of the meanest person, uneasy at his
ill-will. But the sturdiest offender of
your peace and of the neighbourhood, if
you rip up his claims, is as thin and timid
as any ; and the peace of society is often
kept, because, as children say, one is
afraid and the other dares not Far off,
men swell, bully, and threruen ; bring
them hand to hand, and they are a feeble
fol^k.
It is a proverb, that "courtesy costs
nothing;” but calculation might come to
value love for its profit. Love is fabled to
be blind ; but kindness is necessary to
perception; love is not a hood, but an
eye-water. If you meet a sectary, or a
hostile partisan, never recognise the di-
viding lines ; but meet on what common
ground remains — if only that the sun
shines, and the rain rains for both ; the
area will widen very fast, and ere you
know it the boundary mountains, on
which the eye had fastened, have melted
into air. If they set out to contend. Saint
Paul will lie, and Saint John will hate.
What low, poor, paltry, hypocritical people
an argument on religion will make of the
pure and chosen souls I They will shuffle,
and crow, crook and hide, feign to confess
here, only that they may brag and conquer
there, and not a thought has enriched
either party, and not an 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 antagetoiSka to
theirs, assume an identity of s^ntimenl#
6a
ESSAYS.
assume thSit you afe saying precisely that
which all think, and in the flow of wit and
love roll out your paradoxes in solid
column, with not the infirmity of a doubt.
So at least shall you get an adequate
deliverance. The natural motions of the
soul are so much better than the volun-
tary 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 extorted,
hoarse, and half witness. But assume a
consent, and it shall presently be granted,
since, really, and underneath their ex-
ternal diversities, all men are of one heart
and mind.
Wisdom will never let us stand with
any man or men on an unfriendly footing.
Wo refuse sympathy and intimacy with
people, as if we waited for some better
sympathy and intimacy to come. But
whence and when ? To-morrow will be
like to-day. Life wastes itself whilst we
are preparing to live. Our friends and
/el'low-workers die off from us. Scarcely
can we say, we see new men, new women,
approaching us, We are too old to regard i
fashion, too old to expect patronage of
any greater or more powerful. Let U3
suck the sweetness of those affections and
consuetudes that grow near us. These
old shoes are easy to the feet. Un-
doubtedly, 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 ;
and life would be dearer with such com'
panions. But, if you cannot have them
on good mutual terms, you cannot have
them. If not the Deity, but our ambitioLi,
hews and shapes the new relations, their
virtue escapes, as strawberries lose their
flavour in garden beds.
Thus truth, frankness, courage, love,
humility, and all the virtues, range them-
selves on the side of prudence, or the art
of securing a present well-being. I do
not know if all matter will be found to be
made of one element, as oxygen or hy-
drogen, at last, but the world of manners
and actions is wrought of one stuff, and,
begin where we will, we are pretty sure in
a short space to be mumbling our ten
command menti.
HEROISM.
•* Paradist Is oader tha shadow of swords.**
Mahomet.
Ruby wine is drunk by knaves,
Sugar spends to fatten slaves,
Rose and vine-leaf deck bufloons ;
Thunder-clouds are Jove’s festoont.
Drooping oft in wreaths ol dread
Lightning-knotted round his head;
The hero is not fed on sweets,
Daily his own heart he eats ;
Chambers of the great are jails,
And head-winds right for royal sails.
In the elder English dramatists, and
mainly in the plays of Beaumont and
Fletcher, there is a constant recognition
of gentility, as if a noble behaviour were
as easily marked in the society of their
age, as colour is in our American popula-
tion. When any Rodrigo, Pedro, or Valerio
enters, though he be a stranger, the duke
or governor exclaims. This is a gentleman
— and proffers civilities without end ; but
all the rest are slag and refuse. In har-
mony with this delight in personal advan-
tages, there is in their plays a certain j
Iheroic cgst of character and dialogue — as
in Bonauca, Sophocles, the Mad Lover, |
the Double Marriage— -wherein the speaker
is so earnest and cordial, and on such deep
grounds of character, that the dialogue, on
the slightest additional incident in the plot,
rises naturally into poetry. Among many
texts, take the following. The Roman
Martius has conquered Athens — all but
the invincible spirits of Sophocles, the
duke of Athens, and Dorigen, his wife.
The beauty of the latter inflames Martius,
and he seeks to save her husband: but
Sophocles will not ask his life, although
assured that a word will save him, and the
’ execution of both proceeds.
Valerius, Bid thy wife farewell.
Soph. No, I will take no leave. 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 ray lord bleed. So, 'tis well;
Never one object underneath the sun
Will I behold before my Sophocles :
Farewell ; now teach the Romans how to die.
Mar. Dost know what ’tis to die?
Soph. Thou dost not, Martius,
And, therefore, not what *tis to live ; to die
Is to begin to live. It is to end
Ab old, stale, weary work, and to commence
HEROISM.
A newer and a better. 'Tis to leave
Deceitful knaves for the society
Of gods and goodness. Thou thyself must part
At last from all thy garlands, pleasures, triumphs,
And prove thy fortitude what then ’twill do.
Val. But art not grieved nor vexed to leave
thy life thus ? ,
Soph. Why should I grieve or vex for being
sent
To them I ever loved best ? Now I’ll kneel,
But with my back toward thee; 'tia the last
duty
This trunk can do the gods.
Mar. Strike, strike, Valeriui,
Or Martins’ heart will leap out at hi^ mouth ;
This is a man, a woman ! Kiss thy lord,
And live with all the freedom you were wont.
O love ! thou doubly hast afflicted me
With virtue and with beauty. Treacherous
heart.
My hand shall cast thee quick into my urn.
Ere thou transgress this knot of piety.
Val. What ails my brother?
Soph. Martius, O Martius,
Thou now hast found a way to conquer me.
Dor. O star of Rome 1 what gratitude can
speak
Fit words to follow such a deed as this I
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 his body here,
ifis soul hath subjugated Martius’ soul.
By Romulus, he is all soul, I think ;
Ho hath no flesh, and spirit cannot be gyved ;
Them we have vanquished nothing ; be is free,
And Martius walks now in captivity,”
I do not readily remember any poem,
play, sermon, novel, or oration, that our
press vents in the iast 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
Leodamia, 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 character, has suffered no
heroic trait in his favourites to drop from
his biographical and historical pictures.
Earlier, Robert Burns has given us a song
or two. In the Harlcin Miscellanies, there
is an account of the battle of Lutzen,
which deserves to be read. And Simon
Ockley’s History of the Saracens recounts
the prodigies of individual valour with ad-
miration, all the more evident on the part
of the narrator, and he seems tot hinkthat
his place in Christian Oxford requires of
him some proper protestations of abhor-
rence. But, if we explore the literature
of Heroism, we shall quickly come to
Plutarch, who is its i^tor and historian.
»3
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 rebuke to the
despondency and cowardice of our re-
ligious 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, more than books of political
science, or of private economy. Life is
a festival only to the wise. Seen from the
nook and chivnney-side of prudence, it
wears a ragged and dangerous front. The
violations of the laws of nature by our
predecessors and our contemporaries aro
punished in us also. The disease and de-
formity around us certify the infraction
of natural, intellectual, and moral laws,
and often violation on Violation to breed
such compound misery. A lockjaw that
bends a man’s head back to his heels,
hydrophobia, that makes him bark at his
wife and babes ; insanity, that makes him
eat grass ; war, plague, cholera, famine,
indicate a certain ferocity in nature, which,
as it had its inlet by human crime, must
have its outlet by human suffering, Un-
happily, no man exists who has not in his
own person become, to some amount, a
stockholder in the sin, and so made him-
self liable to a share in the expiation.
Our culture, therefore, must not omit
the arming of the man. Let him hear in
season, that he is born into the state of
war, and that the commonwealth and his
own well-being require that he should not
go dancing in the weeds of peace, but
warned, self-collected, and neither defy-
ing nor dreading the thunder, let him take
both reputation and life in his hand, and,
with perfect urbanity, dare the gibbet and
the mob by the absolute truth of his
speech, and the rectitude of his be-
haviour.
Towards all this external evil, the man
within the breast assumes a warlike atti-
tude, and affirms his ability to cope single-
handed with the infinite army of enemies.
To this military attitude of the soul we
give the name of Heroism. Its rudest
form is the contempt for safety and ease,
which makes the attractiveness ot 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 suf-
fer. The hero is a mind of such t^olanc®
that no disturbances can shake ^is wil),
ESSAYS.
«4
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 some-
what not philosophical in heroism ; there
is somewhat not holy in it ; it seems not
to know that other souls are of one tex-
ture with it; it has pride; it is the ex-
treme of individual nature. Nevertheless,
we must profoundly revere it. There is
somewhat in great actions, which does
not allow us to go behind them. Heroism
feels and never reasons, and therefore is
always right; and although a different
breeding, differenl religion, and greater
intellectual activity would have modified
or even reversed the particular action, yet
for the hero that thing he does is the high-
est deed, and is not open to the censure of
philosophers or divines. It is the avowal
of the unschooled man, that he finds a
quality in him that is negligent of expense,
of health, of life, of danger, of hatred, of
reproach, and knows that his will is higher
and more excellent than all actual and all
possible antagonists.
Heroism works in contradiction to the
voice of mankind, and in contradiction,
for a time, to the voice of the great and
good. Heroism is an obedience to a secret |
impulse of an individual’s character. Now i
to no other man can its wisdom appear as
it does to him, for every man must be sup-
posed 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 con-
tempt of some external good. But it finds
its own success at last, and then the pru-
dent also extol.
Self-trust is the essence of heroism. It
is the state of the soul at war, and its
ultimate objects are the last defiance of
falsehood and wrong, and the power to
bear all that can be inflicted by evil agents.
It speaks the truth, and it is just, gener-
ous, hospitable, temperate, scornful of
petty calculations, and scornful of being
scorned. It persists ; it is of an undaunted
boldness, and of a fortitude not to be
wearied out. Its jest is the littleness of
common life. That false prudence which
dotes on health and wealth is the butt and
merriment of heroism. Heroism, like
Plotiq^is, is almost ashamed of its body.
What shall it say, then, to the sugar plums
and cai’s-cradles, to the toilet, compli-
ments, quarrels, cards, and custard, which
rack the wit of all society ? What joys
has kind nature provided foi us dear crea-
tures 1 There seems to be no interval
between greatness and meanness. When
the spirit is not master of the world, then
it is its dupe. Yet the little man takes
the great hoax so innocently, works in it
so headlong and believing, is born red,
and dies grey, arranging his toilet, attend-
ing on his own health, laying traps for
sweet food and strong wine, setting his
heart on a horse or a rifle, made happy
with a little gossip or a little praise, that
the great soul cannot choose but laugh at
such earnest nonsense. “ Indeed, these
humble considerations make mo out of
love with greatness. What a disgrace is
it to me to take note how many pairs of
silk stockings thou hast, namely, these
and those that were the peach-coloured
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 at their fireside,
reckon narrowly the loss of time and the
unusual display : the soul of a better
quality 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 heroic
extreme in the hospitality of Sogd, in
Bukharia. “ When I was in Sogd, I saw
a great building, like a palace, the gates
of which were open and fixed back to the
wall with large nails. I asked the reason,
and was told that the house had not been
shut, night or day, for a hundred years.
Strangers may present themselves at
any hour, and in whatever number ;
the master has amply provided for the
reception of the men and their animals,
and is never happier than when they
tarry for some time. Nothing of the
kind have I seen in any other country.”
The magnanimous know very well that
they who give time, or money, or shelter
to the stranger — so it be done for love,
and not for ostentation — do, as it were,
put God under obligation to them, so
perfect are the compensations of the
universe. In some way the time they
seem to lose is redeemed, and the pains
they seem to take remunerate themselves.
These men fan the flame of human love,
and raise the standard of civil virtue
among mankind. But hospitality must be
for service, and not for show, or it puUs
HEROISM.
down the hostt The brave soul rates
itself too high to value itself by the
splendour of its table and draperies. It
gives what it hath, and all it hath, but its
own majesty can lend a better grace to
bannocks and fair water than belong to
city feasts.
The temperance of the hero proceeds
from the same wish to do no dishonour to
the worthiness he has. But he loves it
for its elegancy, not for its austerity. It
seems not worth his while to be solemn,
and denounce with bitterness flesh-eating
or wine-drinking, the use of tobacco or
opium, or tea, or silk, or gold. A great
man scarcely knows how he dines, how he
dresses ; but without railing or precision,
his living is natural and poetic. John
Eliot, the Indian Apostle, drank water,
and said of wine, ‘‘ It is a noble, generous
liquor, and we should be humbly thankful
for it, but, as I remember, water was made
before it.” Better still is the temperance
of King David, who poured out on the
ground unto the Lord the water which
three of his warriors had brought him to
drink, at the peril of their lives.
It is told of Brutus, that when he fell on
his sword, after the battle of Philippi, he
quoted a line of Euripides, ” O virtue I 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 great-
ness is the perception that virtue is enough.
Poverty is its ornament. It does not need
plenty, and can very well abide its loss.
But that which takes my fancy most, in
the heroic class, is the good-humour and
hilarity they exhibit. It is a height to
which common duty can very well attain,
to suffer and to dare with solemnity. But
these rare souls set opinion, success, and
life at so cheap a rate that they will not
Boothe their enemies by petitions, or the
show of sorrow, but wear their own habit-
ual greatness. Scipio, charged with ,
peculation, refuses to do himself so great
a disgrace as to wait for justification,
though he had the scroll of his accounts
in his hands, but tears it to pieces before
the tribunes. Socrates’ condemnation of
himself to be maintained in all honour 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 com-
«5
I •* Jul. Why, slaves, 'til In our power to
i hang ye.
Master, Very likely.
*T is in our powers, theOf to be hanged, and
scorn ye.”
These replies are sound and whole. Sport
is the bloom and glow of a perfect health.
I The great will not condescend to take any-
; thing seriously ; all must be as gay as the
i song of a canary, though it were the build-
! ing of cities or the eradication of old and
foolish churches and nations, which have
cumbered the earth long thousands of
years. Simple hearts put all the history
and customs of this world behind them,
and play their own game in innocent
defiance of the Blue-Laws of the world ;
and such would appear, could we see
the human race assembled in vision, like
little children frolicking together ; though,
to the eyes of mankind at large, they wear
a stately and solemn garb of works and
influence.
The interest these fine stories have for
us, the power of a romance over the boy
who grasps the forbidden book under his
bench at school, our delight in the hero, is
the main fact to our purpose. All these
great and transcendent properties are
ours. If we dilate in beholding the Greek
energy, the Roman pride, it is that we are
already domesticating the same sentiment.
Let us find room for this great guest in
our small houses. The first step of
worthiness will be to disabuse us of our
superstitious associations with places and
times, with number and size. Why should
these words, Athenian, Roman, Asia, and
England, so tingle in the ear ? Where
the heart is, there the muses, there the
gods sojourn, and not in any geography of
fame. Massachusetts, Connecticut River,
and Boston Bay, you think paltry places,
and the ear loves names of foreign and
classic topography. But hero we are ;
and, if we will tarry a little, we may come
to learn that here is best. See to it, only,
that thyself is here— and art and nature,
hope and fate, friends, angels, and the
Supreme Being, shall not be absent from
the chamber where thou sittest. Epami-
nondas, 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 honest
ground enough for Washington to tread,
and London streets for the feet of Milton.
A great man makes his climate genial in
the imagination of men, and iti»^air tha
beloved element of all delicate spirits.
That country is the fairesti whtob V
(^6
ESSAYS,
habited by the noblest minds. The pic- pulses, fits, and starts of genercsfry, Bat
tures which fill the imagination in reading when you have chosen your part, abide by
the actions of Pericles, Xenophon, Colum- it, and do not weakly try to reconcile
bus, Bayard, Sidney, Hampden, teach us yourself with the world. The heroic can-
how needlessly mean our life is, that we, not be the common, nor the common the
by the depth of our living, should deck it heroic. Yet we have the weakness to
with more than regal or national splen- expect the sympathy of people in those
dour, and act on principles that should actions whose excellence is that they out-
interest man and nature in the length of run sympathy, and appeal to a tardy jus-
our days. tice. If you would serve your brother,
We have seen or heard of many extra- because it is fit for you to serve him, do
ordinary young men, who never ripened, not take back your words when you find
or whose performance in actual life was that prudent people do not commend you,
not extraordinary. When we see their Adhere to your own act, and congratulate
air and mien, when we hear them speak yourself if you have done something
of society, of books, of religion, we ad- strange and extravagant, and broken the
mire their superiority, they seem to throw monotony of a decorous age. It was a
contempt on our entire polity and social high counsel that I once heard given to a
state; theirs is the tone of a youthful young person — “ Always do what you are
giant, who is sent to work revolutions, afraid to do.” A simple, manly character
But they enter an active profession, and need never make an apology, but should
the forming Colossus shrinks to the com- regard its past action with the calmness
mon size of man. The magic they used of Phocion, when he admitted that the
was the ideal tendencies, which always event of the battle was happy, yet did not
make the Actual ridiculous ; but the tough regret his dissuasion from the battle,
world had its revenge the moment they There is no weakness or exposure for
put their horses of the sun to plough in which we cannot find consolation in the
Its furrow. They found no example and thought — this is a part of my constitution,
no companion, and their heart fainted, part of my relation and office to my fellow-
What then ? The lesson they gave in creature. Has nature covenanted with
their first aspirations is yet true ; and a me that I should never appear to dis-
better valour and purer truth shall one advantage, never make a ridiculous figure ?
day organise their belief. Or why should Let us be generous of our dignity, as well
a woman liken herself to any historical as of our money. Greatness once and for
woman, and think, because Sappho, or ever has done with opinion. We tell our
S^vignfc, or De StaGl, or the cloistered charities, not because we wish to be
couls who have had genius and cultivation, praised for them, not because we think
do not satisfy the imagination and the they have great merit, but for our justifi-
sereno Themis, none can— certainly not cation. It is a capital blunder; as you
she. Why not ? She has a new and un- discover when another man recites his
attempted problem to solve, perchance charities.
that of the happiest nature that ever To speak the truth, even with soma
bloomed. Let the maiden with erect soul, austerity, to live with some rigour of
walk serenely on her way, accept the hint temperance, or some extremes of generos-
of each new experience, search in turn ity, seems to be an asceticism which
all the objects that solicit her eye, that common good nature would appoint to
she may learn the power and the charm those who are at ease and in plenty, in
of her new-born being, which is the sign that they feel a brotherhood with the
kindling of a new dawn in the recesses of great multitude of sxiffering men. And
space. The fair girl, who repels inter- not only need we breathe and exercise the
ference by a decided and proud choice of soul by assuming the penalties of absti-
influences, so careless of pleasing, so nence, of debt, of solitude, of unpopularity,
wilful and lofty, inspires every beholder but it behoves the wise man to look with
with somewhat of her own nobleness, a bold eye into those rarer dangers which
The silent heart encourages her ; O friend, sometimes invade men, and to familiarise
never strike sail to a fear I Come into himself with disgusting forms of disease,
port greatly, or sail with God the seas, with sounds of execration, and the vision
Not in vain you live, for every passing eye of violent death.
IB cheered and refined by the vision. Times of heroism are generally times of
The characteristic of heroism is its per- terror, but the day never shines in which
•iftency.. All men have wandering izn- this element may not work. The circum*
THE OVBR^SOUL,
itances o! man, we aay, are historically
•omewhat better in this country, and at
this hour, than perhaps ever before. More
freedom exists for culture. It will not
now run against an axe at the first step
out of the beaten track of opinion. But
whoso is heroic will always find crises to
try his edge. Human virtue demands her
champions and martyrs, and the trial of
persecution always proceeds. It is but the
other day that the brave Lovejoy gave his j
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 approves. The unremitting
retention of simple and high sentiments
in obscure duties is hardening the charac-
ter to that temper which will work with
honour, if need be, in the tumult, or on
the scaffold. Whatever outrages have
happened to men may bcfali 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 gibbet, the youth may freely bring
home to his mind, and with what sweet-
ness of temper he can, and inquire how
fast he can fix his sense of duty, braving
such penalties, whenever it may please
the next newspaper and a sufficient num-
ber of his neighbours to pronounce hia
opinions incendiary.
It may calm the apprehension of calam-
ity in the most susceptible heart to see
how quick a bound nature has set to the
utmost infliction of malice. We rapidly
approach a brink over which no enemy
can follow us.
“ Let them rave :
Thou art quiet in thy grave."
In the gloom of our ignorance of what
shall be, in the hour when we are deaf to
the higher voices, who does not envy those
who have seen safely to an end their man-
ful endeavour ? Who that sees the
meanness of our politics, but only con-
gratulates Washington that ho 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 sub-
jugated in him ? who does not sometimes
envy the good and brave, who are no
more to suffer from the tumults of the
natural world, and await with curious
complacency the speedy term of his own
conversation with finite nature ? And yet
the love that will be annihilated sooner
than treacherous has already made death
impossible, and affirms itself no mortal,
but a native of the deeps of absolute and
inextinguishable being.
THE OVER-SOUL.
“ But souls that of his own good life partake,
He loves as his own self ; dear as his eye
They are to Him : He’ll never them forsake ;
When they shall die, then God himself shall
die:
They live, they live in blest eternity."
Henry More.
Space is ample, east and west|
But two cannot go abreast,
Cannot travel in it two :
Yonder masterful cuckoo
Crowds every egg out of the nest.
Quick or dead, except its own ;
A spell is laid on sod and stone,
Night and Day were tampered with.
Every quality and pith
Surcharged and sultry with a power
That works its will on age and hour.
There is a difference between one and
another hour of life, in their authority
and subsequent effect. Our faith comes
in moments ; our voice is habitual, Yet
there is a depth in those brief moments
which constrains us to ascribe more
reality to them than to all other expe-
riences. For this reason, the argument
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. We grant
that human life is mean ; but how did we
find out that it was mean ? What is the
ground of this uneasiness of ours ; of this
old discontent ? What is the universal
sense of want and ignorance, but the fine
innuendo by wdiich the soul makes its
enormous claim ? Why do men feel that
the natural history of man has never been
written, but he is always leaving behind
what you have said of him, and it become*
old, and books of metaphysics worthless ?
The philosophy of six thousand yeSrs has
not searched the chambers and magazines
68
ESSAYS.
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 incal-
culable may not baulk the very next mo-
ment, I am constrained every moment
to acknowledge a higher origin for events
than the will I call mine.
As with events, so it is with thoughts.
When I watch that flowing river, which,
out of regions I see not, pours for a season
its streams into me, I see that I am a
pensioner ; not a cause, but a surprised
spectator of this ethereal water ; that I
desire and look up, and put myself in the
attitude of reception, but from some alien
energy the visions come.
The Supreme Critic on the errors of the
past and the present, and the only 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 wor-
ship, to which all right action is submis-
sion ; that overpowering reality which
confutes our tricks, and talents, and con-
strains everyone to pass for what he is,
and to speak from his character, and not
from his tongue, and which evermore
tends to pass into our thought and hand,
and become wisdom, and virtue, and
power, and beauty. We live in succes-
sion, 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 i
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 sub-
ject and the object, is one. We see the
world piece by piece, as the sun, the moon,
the animal, the tree; but the whole, of
which these are the shining parts, is the
soul. Only by the vision of that Wisdom
can the horoscope of the ages be read, and
by falling back on our better thoughts, by
yielding to the spirit of prophecy which is
innate in every man, we can know what it
saith. Every man’s words, who speaks
from that life, must sound vain to those
who doinot dwell in the same thought on
their own part. I dare not speak for it.
My words do not carry iti august sense t
they fall short and cold. Only itself can
inspire whom it will, and behold 1 their
speech shall be lyrical, and sweet, and
universal as the rising of the wind. Yet I
desire, even by profane words, if I may
not use sacred, to indicate the heaven
of this deity, and to report what hints I
have collected of the transcendent sim-
plicity and energy of the Highest Law.
If we consider what happens in conver-
sation, in reveries, in remorse, in times of
passion, in surprises, in the instructions
dreams, wherein often we see ourselves
in masquerade — the droll disguises only
magnifying and enhancing a real element,
and forcing it on our distinct notice — we
shall catch many hints that will broaden
and lighten into knowledge of the secret
of nature. All goes to show that the soul
in man is not an organ, but animates and
exercises all the organs ; is not a function
like the power of memory, of calculation,
of comparison, but uses these as hands
and feet ; is no*’ a faculty, but a light; is
not the intellect or the will, but the master
of the intellect and the will ; is the back-
ground of our being, in which they lie—
an immensity not possessed and that can-
not be possessed. From within or fronj
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 fagade 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 him-
self. Him we do not respect, but the soul,
whose organ he is, would he let it appear
through his action, would make our knees
bend. When it breathes through his in-
tellect it is genius; when it breathes
through his will, it is virtue ; 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 in-
dividual 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 colours. It is too subtile.
It is undefinable, unmeasurable, but wa
know that it pervades and contains us.
We know that all spiritual being is in
man. A wise old proverb says, “ God
comes to see us without bell ;” that is, at
there is no screen or ceiling between oiur
THE OVER-SOUL.
heads and the infinite heavens, so is there
no bar or wall in the soul where man,
the effect, ceases, and God, the cause,
begins. The walls are taken away. We
lie open on one side to the deeps of
spiritual nature, to the attributes of God.
Justice we see and know, Love, Freedom,
Power. These natures no man ever got
above, but they tower above us, and most
in the moment when our interests tempt
us to wound them.
The sovereignty of this nature whereof
we speak is made known by its indepen-
dency of those limitations which circum-
scribe us on every hand. The soul cir-
cumscribes all things. As I have said, it
contradicts all experience. In like man-
ner it abolishes time and space. The
influence of the senses has, in most men,
overpowered the mind to that degree,
that the walls of time and space have
come to look real and insurmountable ;
and to speak with levity of these limits is,
in the world, the sign of insanity. Yet
time and space are but inverse measures
of the force of the soul. The spirit sports
with time—
*• Can crowd eternity into an hour,
Or stretch an hour to eternity,”
We are often made to feel that there is
another youth and age than that which is
measured from the year of our natural
birth. Some thoughts always find us
young and keep us so. Such a thought is I
the love of thC universal and eternal
beauty. Every man parts from that con-
templation 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 condi-
tions of time. In sickness, in languor,
give us a strain of poetry, or a profound
sentence, and we are refreshed ; or pro-
duce a volume of Plato, or Shakespeare,
or remind us of their names, and instantly
we come into a feeling of longevity. See
how the deep, divine thought reduces
centuries, and millenniums, and makes
itself present through all ages. Is the
teaching of Christ less effective now than
it was when first his mouth was opened ?
The emphasis of facts and person in my
thought has nothing to do with time. And
so, always, the soul’s scale is one ; the
^ale of the senses and the understanding
is another. Before the revelations of the
*oul, Time, Space, and Nature shrink
sway. In common speech, wo refer all
thing! to time, as we habitually refer
69
immensely sundered stars to one concave
sphere. And so we say that the judgment
is distant or near, that the Millennium
approaches, that a day of certain, poli-
tical, 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 per-
manent 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 land-
scape, the figures, Boston, London, are
facts as fugitive as any institution past,
or any whiff of mist or smoko, and so is
society, and so is the world. The soul
looketh steadily forwards, creating a
world before her, leaving worlds behind
her. She has no dates, nor rites, nor
persons, nor specialities, nor men. The
soul knows only the soul; the web of
events is the flowing robe in which she is
clothed.
After its own law and not by arithmetic
is the rate of its progress to be computed,
'fhe 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 egg
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 particular virtue, but into tha
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: re-
quires beneficence, but is somewhat better ;
so that there is a kind of descent and ac-
commodation felt when we leave speaking
of moral nature, to urge a virtue which it
enjoins. To the well-born child^U tha
YHPJGS are aa^uxal, and not painfully
70 ESSAYS.
acquired. Speak to his heart, and the
man becomes suddenly virtuous.
Within the same sentiment is the germ
of intellectual growth, which obeys the
I same law. Those who are capable of
humility, of justice, of love, of aspiration,
stand already on a platform tliat com-
mands the sciences and arts, speech and
poetry, action and grace. For whoso
dwells in tliis moral beatitude already
anticipates those special powers which
men prize so highly. The lover has no
talent, no skill, which passes for quite
nothing with his enamoured maiden, how-
ever little she may possess of related
faculty; and the heart which abandons
itself to the Supreme Mind finds itself
related to all its works, and will travel a
royal road to particular knowledges and
powers. In ascending to tliis 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, aiid anticipate the universe, which
is but a slow effect.
One mode of the divine teaching is tlie
ii^oarnation of the spirit in a form — in
fo.ms, like my own. I live in society;
with persons who answer to thoughts in
riy own mind, or express a certain obe-
dience to the great instincts to which I
live. I see its presence to them. I am
certified of a common nature ; and these
other souls, these separated selves, drav/
me as nothing else can. They stir in me
th(> new emotions we call passion; of love,
hatred, fear, admiration, pity ; thence
comes conversation, competition, per-
wO ASion, cities, and war. Persons are
supplementary to the primary teaching of
the soul. In youth we are mad for persons.
Childhood and youth see all the world in
them. But the larger experience of man
discovers the identical nature appearing
through them all. Persons themselves
acquaint us with the impersonal. In all
conversation between two persons, tacit
reference is made, as to a third party, to
a common nature. That third party or
common nature is not social ; it is im-
personal ; 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 unicy of thought, in which every heart
boats with nobler sense of power and duty,
and thinks and acts with unusual solem-
nity. All are conscious of attaining to a
higher self-possession. There is a certain
wisdom of humanity which is common to
the greatest men wulh the lowest, and
which our ordinary education often labourc
to silence and obstruct. The mind is one,
and the best minds, who love truth for its
own sake, think much less of property in
truth. Tiiey accept it thankfully every-
where, and do not label or stamp it with
any man’s name, for it is theirs long
bcforcliand, 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 valu-
able observations to j)eoplo 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 oltener 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 ])ossess our*
selves, and we know at the .same time that
we are mucli more. I feel the same tnilh
how often in my trivial conversation with
my ncighl;ours, tliat somewhat higher in
each of us overlooks tliis by-play, and
Jove nods to Jove from behind each of
us.
Men descend to meet. In their habitucl
and mean service to the world, for wliich
thtjy forsake their native nobleness, they
resemble those Arabian sheiks, wlio
dwell in mean houses, and affect an ex-
ternal poverty, to escape the rapacity of
tlie Paclia, and reserve all their display of
wealth for tlieir interior and guarded re-
tirements.
As it is present in ail persons, so it is in
every period of life. It is adult already
in the infant man. In my dealing with
iny child, my Latin and Greek, my
accomplishments and my money, stead
me nothing ; but as much soul as I have
avails. If I am wilful, he sets his will
against mine, one for one, and leaves mo,
if I please, the degradation of beating
him by my superiority of strength. But
if I renounce my will, and act for the soul,
setting that up as umpire between us two,
out of his young eyes looks the same
soul ; he reveres and loves with me.
The soul is the perceiver and revealer
of truth. We know truth when we see it,
let sceptic and scoffer say what they
clioose, Foolish people ask you, when
THE OVER-SOUL.
you have spolccu what they do not wish to
hear^ “ How do you know it is truth, and
rot an error of your own?” VVe know
truth when we sec it, from opinion, as we
know when we are awake that we are
awake. It was a grand sentence of
EnianJiel Swedenborg, which would alone
indicate tlie greatness of that man’s per-
ceplion-*' It is no proof of a man’s
umierstanding to be aide to confirm what-
ever he pleases; but to b(3 able to discern
what is true is true, and that wliat is false
is false, this is the maik aud character of
intelligence.” In the book I read, the
good thought returns to me, as every
Truth will, tiie ituago of the whole soul. |
To the bad thought which I find in it, the |
same soul becomes a discerning, separa-
ting swerd, and lops it away. We are
wiser ilian we know. If w^e will not iuter-
lerev/ith our thought, but will act entirely,
or see how the thing stands in God, we
y)iow the particular thing, and everything,
and every man. For liie khdvcr of all
things and all persons stands behind us,
aud casts his dread oiauiscience through
ns over things.
But beyond this recognition of its own
in particular passages of the individual’s
experience, it also rove.als truth. And
hero we should seek to reinlorcc 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
docs not give somewhat from itself, but it
gives itself, or passes into and becomes
that man who it enlightens ; or, in pro-
portion to that truth he receives, it takes
him to itself.
\Ve distinguish the announcements of
the soul, its manifestations of its own
pciture, by the term llcvclatio'ti. These
are always attended by the emotion of the
SJubliruG. For this communication is an
iidlux of the Divine mind into our mind.
It is an ebb of the individual rivulet
before tiie flowing surges of the sea of
life. Every distinct apprehension of this
central commandment agitates men with
awe and delight. A thrill passes through
all men at the reception of new truth, or
at the performance of a great action,
which comes out of the heart of nature.
In these communications the power to see
is not separated from the will to do, but
the insight proceeds from obedience, and
the obedience proceeds from a joyful per-
ception. Every moment when the indi-
vidual feels himself invaded by it is
msmorablo. By the necessity of our con-
71
stitution, a certain enthusiasm attends the
individual’s consciousness of the Divine
presence. The character and duration of
this enthusiasm varies with the state of
the individual, from an ecstasy and trance
and prophetic inspiration — which is its
rarer appearance — to the faintest glow cf
virtuous emotion, in which form it warms
like our household fires, all the families
and associations of men, and makes
society possible. A certain tendency to
insanity has always attended the opening
of the religious sense in men, as if they
had been " blasted with excels of light.’'
The trances of Socrates, the “ union ” of
Plotinus, the vision of Porphyry, the con-
version of Paul, tlie aurora of Behrnen,
the convulsions of George P'ox and hia
Quakers, the illumination of Swedenborg,
are of this kind. What was in the casa
of these remarkable persons a ravishment
has, in innumerable instances in common
life, been exliibited in less striking man-
ner. LCverywherc the history of religion
betrays a teiiclejicy to enthusiasm. The
rapture of the Moravian and Quietisl ;
the opening of tlie internal sense of the
Word, in the language of the New
J-'iiisalem Clmrcii; the revival of the
Calvinistic churches ; the experiences of
the Methodists, are varying forms of that
shudder of awe and delight with which the
individual soul always mingles with the
universal soul.
The nature of these revelations is the
same; they are perceptions of tPio
absolute law. They are solutions of the
soul’s own questions. They do not
answer the questions which the under-
standing asks. The soul answers never
by words, but by tiie thing itself that is
inquired after.
Kevelation is the disclosure of the soul,
the popular notion of a revelation is, that
it is a telling of fortunes. In past oracles
of the soul, the understanding seeks to
find answers to sensual questions, and
undertakes to tell from God how long
men shall exist, what their hands shall
do, and who shall be their company,
adding names, and dates, and places.
But w 0 must pick no locks. We must
check this low curiosity. An answer in
words is delusive ; it is really no answer
to the questions you ask. Do not require
a description of the countries towards
which you sail. The description does
not describe them to you, and to-morrow
you arrive there, and know them^l^y in-
habiting them. Men ask concerning thci
immortality of the soul, the employmenll
ESS A YS.
7 *
of heaven, the state of the sinner, and so
forth. They even dream that Jesus has
left replies to precisely these interroga-
tories. 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 attri-
butes, 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 main-
tain it by evidences. The moment the
doctrine of the immortality is separately
taught, man is already fallen. In the
flowing of love, in the adoration of humility,
there is no question of continuance. No
inspired man ever asks this question, or
condescends to these evidences. For the
soul is true to itself, and the man in whom
it is shed abroad cannot wander from the
present, which is infinite, to a future
which would be finite.
These questions which we lust to ask
about the future are a confession of sin.
God has no answer for them. No answer
in words can reply to a question of things.
It is not in an arbitrary “ decree of God,”
but in the nature of man, that a veil
shuts down on the facts of to-morrow;
for the soul will not have us read any
other cipher than that of cause and effect.
By this veil, which curtains events, it in-
structs 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 soul
has built and forged for itself a new con-
dition, and the question and the answer
are one.
By the same fire, vital, consecrating,
celestial, which burns until it shall dis-
solve 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 hi* circle of friends ? No man. Yet
their acts and words do not disappoint
him. In that man, though he knew no ill
of h\m, he puts no trust. In that other,
though they had seldom met, authentic
iigna bad passed, to signify that he
might be trusted as one who had an in-
terest in his own character. We know
each other very well —which of us ha*
been just to himself, and whether that
I which we teach or behold is only an aspi-
ration, or is our honest effort also.
I We are all discerners of spirits. That
diagnosis lies aloft in our life or uncon-
scious power. The intercourse of society—
its trade, its religion, its friendships, ihS
quarrels — is one wide, judicial investigar
tion of character. In full court, or in
small committee, or confronted face to
face, accuser and accused, men offer
themselves to be judged. Against their
will they exhibit those decisive trifles by
which character is read. But who judges ?
and what ? Not our understanding. Wa
do not read them by learning or craft.
No ; the wnsdorn 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, maugra
our efforts or our imperfections, your
genius will speak from you, and mine
from me. That which we are, we shall
teach, not voluntarily, but involuntarily.
Thoughts come into our minds by avenues
which we never left open, and thoughts
go out of our mind through avenues which
we never voluntarily opened. Character
teaches over our head. The infallible
index of true progress is found in the
tone the man takes. Neither is age, nor
his breeding, nor company, nor books,
nor actions, nor talents, nor ali 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 setv*
tences, the build, shall I say, of all his
opinions, will involuntarily confess it, let
him brave it out how he will. If he have
found his centre, the Deity will shine
through him, through all the disguises of
ignorance, of ungenial temperament, of
unfavourable 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 jwets like Pope — between
pnilosophers like Spinoza, Kant, and
Coleridge, and philosopers like Locke,
Paley, Mackintosh, and Stewart — between
men of the world, who are reckoned ac*
complished talkers, and hero and there a
fervent mystic, prophesying, half insane
under the infinitude of his thought— is
THE OVER-SOUL,
73
that one class speak frofn withiHt or from
experience, as parties and possessors of
the fact ; and the other class, /row without,
as spectators merely, or perhaps as ac-
quainted with the fact on the evidence of
third persons. It is of no use to preach
to mo from without: I can do that too
easily myself. Jesus speaks always from
within, and in a degree that transcends all
others. In that is the miracle. I believe
beforehand that it ought so to be. All men
Bland 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 tolls of,
let him lowly confess it.
The same Omniscience flows into the
intellect, and makes what we call genius.
Much of the wisdom of the world is not
wisdom, and the most illuminated class of
men are no doubt superior to literary
fame, and are not writers. Among the
multitude of scliolars and authors, wc feci
CO hallowing presence ; wc are sensible of !
a knack and sldll rather than of inspira-
tion ; tliey have a light, and know not
whence it comes, and call it their own ;
their talent is some exaggerated faculty,
some overgrown member, so that their
strength is a disease. In these instances
the intellectual gifts do not make the im-
pression of virtue, but almost of vice ; and
we feel that a man’s talents stand in the
w'ay of his advancement in truth. But
genius is religious. It is a larger imbibing
of the common heart. 1 1 is not anomalous,
but more like, and not less like other men.
There is, in all great poets, a wisdom of
humanity which is superior to any talents
they exercise. The author, the wit, the
partisan, the fine genthmian, does not
take place of the man. Humanity shines
in Ilomer, in Chaucer, in Si^eiiser, in
Shakespeare, in Milton. They are con-
tent with truth. They use the positive
degree. They seem frigid and phlegmatic
to those who have been spiced with the
frantic passion and violent colouring of in-
ferior, but popular writers. For they are
poets by the free course which they allow
to the informing soul, which through their
eyes beholds again, and blesses the things
which it hath made. The soul is superior
to its knowledge ; wiaer than any of its
w^orks. The great poet makes us feel our
own wealth, and then we think less of his
compositions. His best communication
to our mind is to teach us to despise all
he has done. Shakespeare carries us to
Buch a lofty strain of intelligent activity,
as to suggest a wealth which beggars his
own ; and wo 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
traveller on the rock. The iiispirs.tion
which uttered itself in Hamlet and Lear
could utter tilings 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 sylla-
bles from the tongue.
This energy does not descend into indi-
vidual life on any other condition than
entire possession. It comes to the lowly
and simple ; it comes to whomsoever will
put off what is foreign and proud ; it comes
as insight I it comes as serenity and
grandeur. When we see those whom it
inhabits, we are apprised of new degrees
of greatness. From that inspiration the
man comes bad: with a changed tone. He
does not talk with men with an eye to
their opinion. He tries them. It re-
quires 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
hiiiu The ambitious vulgar show you
their spoons, and brooches, and rings, and
preserve their cards and compliments.
The more cultivated, in tlieir account of
their own experience, cull out the pleasing,
poetic circumstance— the visit to Rome,
the man of genius they saw, the brilliant
friend they know ; still further on, per-
haps, the gorgeous landscape, the moun-
tain lights, the mountain thoughts, they
enjoyed yesterday — and so seek to throw
a romantic colour over their life. But the
soul that ascends to worship the great
God is plain and true ; has no rose-colour,
no flue friends, no chivalry, no adventures ;
does not want admiration ; dwells in tho
hour that now ic, in the earnest experi-
ence of the common day — by reason of
the present moment and the mere tiifla
having become porous to thought, and
bibulous of the sea of light.
Converse with a mind that is grandly
simple, and literature looks like word-
catching. The simplest utterances are
worthiest to be written, yet are they so
cheap, and so things of course, that, in
the infinite riches of the soul, it is like
gathering a few pebbles off the ground, or
bottling a little air in a phial, when tha
whole earth and the whole atmosphere ara
ours. Nothing can pass there, or make
you one of the circle, but thecastir^ aside
your trappings, aiid dealing man to man
ESSAYS.
74
ia naked truth, plain confession, and om-
niscient affirmation.
Souls such as these treat you as gods
would ; walk as gods in the earth, accept-
ing without any admiration your wit, your
bounty, your virtue even — say rather your
act of duty, for your virtue they own as
their proper blood, royal as themselves,
and over royal, and the father of llie gods.
But what rebuke their plain fraternal
bearing casts on the mutual flattery with
which authors solace each other and
wound themselves I 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 god-
send to princes, for they confront them, a
king to a king, without ducking or con-
cession, and give a high nature the
refreshment and satisfaction of resistance,
of plain humanity, of even companionsliip,
and of new ideas. They leave them Vviser
and superior men. Souls like these make
us feel that sincerity is more excellent
than llattery. Deal so plainly with man
and woman as to constrain the utmost
sincerity, and destroy all hope of trilling
with you, It is the highest compliment
you can pay. Their “ liighest praising,”
said Milton, ” is not flattery, and their
plainest advice is a kind of praising.”
Ineffable is the union of man and God
in every act of the soul. The simplest
person, who in his integrity worships God,
becomes God : yet for ever and ever tlie
influx of this better and universal seif is
new and unsearchable. It inspires awe
and astonisliment. How dear, how sooth-
ing to man, arises the idea of God, peop-
ling 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 rlietoric, then
may God Are 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 in^/pircs a man in infallible
trust. He has conviction, but the
sight, that the best is the true, and may
in that thought easily dismiss all particu-
lar uncertainties and fears, and adjourn
to the sure revelation of time, the solution
of his private riddles. He is sure that
his welfare is dear to the heart of being.
In th/'presence of lav/ to his mind, he is
overflowed with a reliance so universal,
I that it sweeps away all cherished hopes
[and the most stable projects of mortal
condition in its flood. He believes that
he cannot escape from his good. The
things that are really for thee gravitate to
thee. You are running to seek your
friend. Let your feet run, but your mind
need not. If you do not find him, will
you not ac(iuiesco 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 v-iell bring you to-
gether, if it were for the best. You aro
preparing with eagerness to go and render
a service to v/hich 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 bo prevented
from going ? O, believe, as thou livest,
that every sound that is spoken over the
round world, which thou oughtest to hear,
will vibrate on thine ear ! Every proverb,
every book, every byword that belongs to
tliee for aid or comfort, shall surely como
home through open or winding passages,
Every friend whom not thy fantastic will,
but the great and tender heart in thee
craveth, shall lock thee in his embrace.
And tills because the heart in thee in tha
heart of all ; not a valve, not a wall, not
an intersection is there anywhere in na-
ture, but one blood rolls uninterruptedly
an endless circulation through all men, as
the water of the globe is all one sea, and,
truly seen, its tide is one.
Let man, then, learn the revelation of alj
nature and all thought to his heart ; this,
namely, that the Highest dwells with him;
that the sources of nature are in his own
mind, if the sentiment of duty is tl»ere.
But if he would know what the great God
speaketh, he must ” go into his closet and
shut the door,” as Jesus said. God will
not make himself manifest to cowards.
He must greatly listen to himself, with-
drawing himself from all the accents of
other men’s devotion. Even their prayers
are hurtful to him, until he have made his
own. Our religion vulgarly stands on
numbers of believers. VVhenever the ap-
peal is made — no matter how indirectly —
to numbers proclamation is then and
there made, that religion is not. He that
finds God a sweet, enveloping thought to
him never counts his company. When I
sit in that presence, who shall dare to
come in ? When I rest in perfect humility,
when I burn with pure love, what caa
Calvin or Swedenborg say ?
It makes ao difference v/hetber ths
CIRCLES.
pf'.al is to numbers or to one. The faith
that stands on authority is not faith. The
reliance on authority measures the decline
of religion, the withdrawal of the soul. The
position men have given to Jesus, now for
many centuries of history, is a position of
authority. It characterises 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
believe 3 in itself. 13efore the immense
possibilities of man, all mere experience,
all past biography, however spotless and
sainted, shrinks away. Before that heaven
which our presentiments foreshow us, vve
cannot easily praise any form of life we
have seen or read of. VVe not only affirm
that we have few great men, but, abso-
lutely speaking, that we have none ; that
we have no history, no record of any ch.a-
racter or mode of living, that entirely coii-
t-uils us. The saints and demigods whom
history worships we are constrained plJ
accept with a grain of allowance, Thoirgh
in our loiudy hours wo draw a new .strength j
cut of their memory, yet, pressed on our
attention, as they are by the thoughtless
and customary, they fatigue and invade.
The soTil gives itself, alone, original, and
pure, to the Lonely, Original, and Pure,
vffio, 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 net
I called religious, but it is mnccent It calls
the light its own, and feels that the grass
grows and the stone falls by a law inferior
to, and dependent on, its nature. Behold,
it saith, I am born into the great, the uni-
versal mind. I, the imperfect, adore my
own Perfect. I am somehow receptive of
the great soul, and thereby I do over-
look tlie sun and the stars, and feel them
to bo the fair accidents and effects which
change and pass. More and more the
surges of everlasting nature enter into
mo, and I become public and human in
my regards and actions. So come I to
live in thoughts, and act with energies,
which are immortal. Thus revering tho
soul, and learning, as the ancient said,
that “ its beauty is immense,” man will
come to sec that the v.’orld is the perennial
miracle wliich the soul worketh, and be
less astonished at particular wonders ; he*
I 'vill learn that there is no profane history ;
that all history is sacred ; that the universe
is represented in atom, in a moment of
time, lie will weave no longer a spotted
life of shreds and patchou, but he will live
with a divine unity. lie will cease from
wliat is base and friv^lcus in his life, and
be content with all places and with any
service he can render, fie will calmly
front the morrow in the ncgligency of
that trust which carries God with it, and
so hath rdready the whole future in the
bottom of the heart.
CIRCLES.
Nature centres into balls,
And her proud opbui-iU'r.ils,
Fast to sui fiice and out^-i*!e,
Scan the pioli'.c nt ilie sphere ;
Knew they what that si;.’!uhud,
A new genesis were here.
The eye is the first circle ; the horizon
which it forms is the second ; and tlirough-
out nature this primary ligure is repeated
without end. It is the highest emblem in
the cipher of tho world. .St. Augustine
d. escribed the nature of God as a circle
vvliose centre was everywhere, and its ,
circumferenoe nowhere. We are all our i
lifetime reading the copious sense of this i
first of forms. One moral we have already |
deduced, in considering the circular or j
compensa tory character of every human i
action. Another analogy we shall now I
trace ; that every action admits of being j
cutdone. Our life ia an apprenticeship to '
j the truth, that around every circle another
can be drawn ; tiiat there is no end ia
nature, but every end is a beginning ; that
there is always another dav/n risen on
mid-noon, and under every deep a lower
deep opens.
This fact, as far as it symbolises tha
moral fact of the Unattainable, the flying
Perfect, around which the hands of man
can never meet, at once the inspirer and
the condeiimer of every success, may
conveniently servo us to connect many
illustrations of human power in every de-
partment.
There are no fixtures in nature. The
universe is fluid and volatile. Permanenca
is but a word of degrees. Our globe seen
by God is a transparent law, not a mass
of facts. The law dissolves the f^t and
holds it fluid. Our culture is tne pre-
dominance of an idea which draw« i^tef
76 ESSAYS.
it this train of cities and institutions. Let
ns rise into another idea: they will dis-
appear. The Greek sculpture is all melted
away, as if it had been statues of ice ;
here and there a solitary figure or frag-
ment remaining, as we see flecks and
scraps of snow left in cold dells and
mountain clefts, in Juno and July. For
the genius tliat created it creates now
somewhere else. The Greek letters last a
little longer, but are already passing under
the same sentence, and tumbling into the
inevitable pit which the creation of new
thought opens for all that is old. The
new continents are built out of the ruins
of an old planet ; the new races fed out of
the decomposition of the foregoing. New
arts destroy the old. See the investment
of capital in aqueducts made useless by
hydraulics; fortifications, by gunpowder;
roads and canals, by railways; sails, bv
steam ; steam by electricity.
You admire this tower of granite, wea-
thering the hurts of so many ages. Yet a
little waving hand built tliis 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 narrov/iy seen, is
itself the effect of a finer cause. Every-
thing looks permanent until its secret is
known. A rich estate appears to woman
a firm and lasting fact ; to a merchant,
one easily created out of any materials,
and easily lost. An orchard, good tillage,
good grounds, seem a fixture, like a gold-
mine, or a river, to a citizen ; but to a
large farmer, not much more fixed than
the state of the crop. Nature looks pro-
vokingly stable and secular, but it has a
cause like all the rest ; and when once I
comprehend that, will these fields stretch
so immovably wide, these leaves hang so
individually considerable ? Permanence
is a word of degrees. Everything is medial.
Moons are no more bounds to spiritual
power than bat-balls.
The key to every man is his thought.
Sturdy and defying though he look, he has
a helm v/hich he obeys, which is the idea
after which all his facts are classified. He
can only be reformed by showing him a
new idea which commands his own. The
life of man is a self-evolving circle, which,
from a ring imperceptibly small, rushes
on all) sides outwards to new and larger
circles, and that without end. The extent
to which this generation of circles, wheel
without wheel, will go, depends on the
force or truth of the individual soul. For
it is the inert effort of each thought, having
formed itself into a circular wave of cir*
cumstance— as, for instance, an empire,
rules of an art, a local usage, a religious,
rite — to heap itself on that riege, 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 groat 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 series. Every general law only v.
particular fact of some more general law
presently to disclose itself. There is no
cQptside, no enclosing wall, no circum'
ffc5(ience to us. The man finishes his story
— how good ! how final I how it puts a
new face on all things ! He fills the sky.
Lo ! on the otlier side rises also a man,
and draws a circle around the circle wa
had just pronounced the onllino of tbs
sphere. Then already is our first speaker
not man, but only a first speaker. Ilia
only redress is forthwith to draw a circle
outside of his antagonist. And so men
do by theins^elves. The result of to-day,
which hn lints the mind and cannot bo
escaped, will presently be abridged into a
v/ord, and tlie principle that scorned to
explain nature will itself bo included as
one example of a bolder generalisation.
Ill 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 lie should be.
Men walk as prophecies ot ti_e next age.
Step by step we scale th.s 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-
dicted by the new ; it is only limited by
the new. The new statement is always
hated by the old, and, to those dwelling in
the old, comes like an abyss of 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 pre-
sently, all its energy spent, it pales and
dwindles before the revelation nf the now
hour,
CIRCLES.
Fear not the new generalisation. Does
the fact look crass and material, threaten-
ing to degrade thy theory of spirit ? Re-
sist it not ; it goes to reiine and raise thy
theory of matter just as much.
There are no fixtures to men, if we
appeal to consciousness. Every man sup-
poses himself not to be fully understood ;
and if there is any truth in him, if ho
rests at last on the divine soul, I see not
how it can be otherwise. The last cham-
ber, the last closet, he must feel, was never
opened ; there is always a residuum un-
known, unanalysable. That is, every j
man believes that he has a greater possi-
bility.
Our moods do not believe in each other.
To-day I am full of thoughts, and can
write what I please. I see no reason why
I should not have the same thought, the
same power of expression, to-morrow.
Wiiat I write, whilst I write it, seems the
most natural thing in the world , but yes-
terday 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 iu nature ; I
am a weed by the v/all.
The continual effort to raise himself
above himself, to work a pitch above his
last height, betrays itself in a man’s rela-
tions. We thirst for approbation, yet
ennnot forgive the approver. The sweet
of nature is love ; yet, if I have a friend,
I am tormented by my imperfections. The
love of me accuses the other party. If he
were high enough to slight me, then could
I love him, and rise by my affection to
new heights. A man’s growth is seen in
the successive choirs of his friends. For
every friend whom he loses for truth, he
gains a better. I thought as I walked in
the woods and mused on my friends, why
should I play with them this game of
idolatry ? I know and see too well, when
not voluntarily blind, the speedy limits of
persons called high and worthy. Rich,
nobla and great they are by the liberality
of oul speech, but truth is sad. O blessed
Spirit, whom I forsake for these, they art
not thou I Every personal consideration
that we allow costs us heavenly state.
We sell the thrones of angels for a short
and turbulent pleasure.
How often must we learn this lesson ?
Men cease to interest us when we find
their limitations. The only sin is limita- ;
tioask As soon as you once come up with !
77
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 yes-
terday, 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 recon-
ciles twenty seemingly discordant facts,
as expressions of one law. Aristotle and
Plato are reckoned the respective heads of
two schools. A wise man will see that
i Aristotle Platonises. By going one step
farther back in thought, discordant opin-
ions are reconciled, by being seen to bo
two extremes of one principle, and wo
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 bo 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 generalisation. Generalisation is
always a new influx of the divinity into
the mind. Hence tiie thrill that attends it.
Valour consists in the power of self-
recovery, so that a man cannot hava
his flank turned, cannot be out-general-
led, but put him where you will, ho
stands. This can only be by his pre-
ferring truth to his past apprehension of
truth ; and his alert acceptance of it, from
whatever quarter ; the intrepid conviction
that his laws, his relations to society, his
Christianity, his world, may at any time be
superseded and decease.
There are degrees in idealism. Wa
learn first to play with it academically, as
the magnet was once a toy. Then we sea
in the heydey 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 ha
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 th^ rapid
efllux of goodness executing and organic*
ESSAYS.
73
big itself. Much more obviously is
history and the state of the world at any
one time directly dependent on the in-
tellectual 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 revolutionise the entire system
of human pursuits.
Conversation is a game of circles. In
conversation wo pluck up the termini
which bound the common of silence on
every side. The parties are not to be
judged by the spirit they partake and
even express under this Pentecost. To-
morrow they will have receded from this
high-watcr-mark. To-morrow you shall
find them stooping under the old pack-
saddles. Yet let us enjoy the cloven
flame whilst it glows on our walls. When
each new speaker strikes a new light,
emancipates us from the oppression of
the last speaker, to oppress us v/ith the
greatness and exclusiveness of his own
thought, then yields us to another
redeemer, we scern 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 wait-
ing, empty — knowing, possibly, that we
can be full, surrounded by mighty
symbols which are not symbols to us, but
prose and trivial toys. Then cometh the
god, and converts the statues into fiery
men, and by a flash of his eye burns up
the veil of which shrouded all things, and
the meaning of the very furniture, of cup
and saucer, of chair and clock and tester,
is manifest. The facts which loomed so
large in the fogs of yesterday — i^roperty,
climate, breeding, personal b^auty, and
the like, have strangely changed their pro-
portions. All that we reckoned settled
shakes and rattles ; and literatures, cities,
climates, religions, leave their foundations,
and dance before our eyes. And yet here
again see the swift circumspection ! Good
as is discourse, silence is better, and
chames it. The length of the discourse
indicates the distance of thought betwixt
the speaker and the hearer. If they were
at a perfect understanding in any part,
no words would be necessary thereon. If at
one in all parts, no words would be suffered.
Literrtura is a point outside of our
hodiernal circle, through which a new ooc
may be described. The uso of literature
is to afford us a platform whence wc may
command a view of our present life,
a purchase by which wo may move
it. Wo All ourselves with ancient learn-
ing, install ourselves the best we can
in Greek, in Punic, in Roman houses,
only that we may .wlselier see French,
English, and American houses and modes
of living. In like manner, we see litera-
ture best from the midst of wild nature,
or from the din of affairs, or from a high
religion. The field cannot be well seen
from within the field. The astronomer
must have his diameter of the earth’s orbit
as a base to And the parallax of any star,
Therefore we value the poet. All the
argument and all the wisdom is not in the
encyclopaidia, or the treatise on metaphy-
sics, or the Body of Divinity, but in tho
sonnet or the play. In my daily work I
incline to repeat my old steps, and do not
believe in remedial force, in tho power of
cliange and reform. I3ut some Petrarch
or Ar iosto, Ailed with the new wine of his
imagination, writes me an ode or a brisk
romance, full of daring thought and
action. lie smites and arousc's me wdth
his shrill tones, breaks up my whole chain
of habits, and I open my eye on my own
possibilities. lie claps wings to the sides
of all tho solid old lumber of the w’-orld,
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 cate-
chism—from the pastures, from a boat in
the pond, from amidst the sung of wood-
birds, we possibly may. Cleansed by tho
elemental light and w’ind, steeped in the
sea of beautiful forms which the licld offers
us, we may chanco to cast a right glance
back upon biograpliy. Chrisiianity is
rightly dear to the best of mankind ; yet
was tlicre never ayoung philosopher whoso
breeding had fallen into the Christian
church, by whom tliat brave text of Paul’a
was not specially prized; “Then sliali
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 'ustinct of man presses eagerly on-
ward to the impersonal and iilimitabio,
and gladly arms itself against the dog-
matism of bigots with this generous word
out of the book itself.
The natural world may be conceived of
as a system of concentric circles, and wa
now and then detect in nature slight dia*
CIRCLES.
713
Jkx^ations, which apprise us that this sur-
face on which we now stand is not fixed,
but sliding. These manifold tenacious
c/ualities, this chemistry and vegetation,
these metals and animals, winch seem to
stand there for their own sake, are means
and methods only — are words of Cod, and
as fugitive as other words. Has the natu-
ralist^ or chemist learned his craft, who
has explored the gravity of atoms and the
elective affinities, who has not yet dis-
cerned the deeper law whereof tliis is only
a partial or approximate statement, name-
ly, 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, subter-
ranean 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 all that we call tlie virtues, and
extinguishes each in the light of a belLer.
The great man will not bo prudent in the
popular sense ; all his prudence wall be so
much deduction from his grandeur. P»ut
it behoves each to see, when he sacrifices
prudence, to what god he devotes it; if to
ease and pleasure, he had better be pru-
dent still ; if to a groat trust, ho 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 nio,
that, with every precaution you take
against such an evil, you put yourself into
the pow-'er of the evil. I suppose that the
liigliest prudence is the lo west prudence.
Is this too sudden a rushing from the
centre to the verge of our orbit ? Think
how many times wo shall fall back into
pitiful calculations before we take up our
rest in the great sentiment, or make the
verge of to-day the now centre. Besides,
your bravest sentiment is familiar to the
humblest men. The poor and the low
have their way of expressing the last facts
of philosophy as well as you. “ Blessed
be nothing,'* and “ The worse things are,
the better they are,” are proverbs which
express the 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 consists in
paying debts, and has no measure in his
abhorrence of another who is very remiss
in this duty, and makes the creditor wait
tediously. But that second man has his
own way of looking at things ; asks him-
self, 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 mankiiul, cf genius to nature ? For
you, O broker! there is no other principlo
but arithmetic. For me, commerce is of
trivial import ; love, faith, truth of charac-
ter, the aspiration of mnn, these are sacred ;
nor can I detach one duty, like you, from
all other duties, and concentrate my forces
mecha.nically on the payment of moneys,
Let me live onward ; you shall find th.at,
though slower, the i)rogrcss of my charac-
ter will liquidate all these debts without
injustice to higher claims. If a man should
dedicate himself to the payment of notes,
would not ti\is be injustice ? Does ho owe
no debt but money ? And are all claims
on him to he postponed to a landlord’s or
a banker’s ?
There is no virtue which is final ; all
are initial. The virtues of society am
vices of the saint. The terror of reform
is the discovery tliat we must cast away
our virtues, or what we hrwe always es-
teemed such, into iho same pit that has
consumed our grosser vices.
“ Forgive his crimes, forgive his virtues too,
Tiiose smaller f-ioUs, half converts to the
right. ”
It is the highest power of divine mo-
ments that they abolish our contritions
also. I accuse myself of sloth and un-
profitableness day by day ; but when
tliese 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 commen-
surate with the work to bo done, without
time.
And thus, O circular philosopher, I hear
some reader exclaim, you have arrived at
a fine Pyrrhonism, at an equivalence and
indifferency of all actions, and would fain
teach us that, if wc are true, forsooth, our
crimes may be lively stones out of which
we shall construct the temple of ttk tru#
Gcdi
8o
ESSAYS.
1 am not careful to justify myself. I
own I am gladdened by seeing the pre-
dominance of the saccharine principle
throughout vegetable nature, and not less
by beholding in morals that unrestrained
inundation of the principle of good into
every chink and hole that selfishness has
left open, yea, into selfishness and sin
itself; so that no evil is pure, nor hell
itself without its extreme satisfactions.
But lest I should mislead any when I have
my own head and obey my whims, let me
remind the reader that I am only an ex-
perimenter. Do not set the least value
on what I do, or the least discredit on
what I do not, as if I pretended to settle
anything as true or false. I unsettle all
things. No facts are to me sacred ; none
are profane ; I simply experiment, an
endless seeker, with no Past at my back,
Yek. this incessant movement and prO'
gressiou which all things partake could
never become sensihde to us but by con-
trast to some principle of fixture or sta-
bility in the soul. Whilst the eternal
generation of ciiclcs proceeds, the eternal
generator abides. That central life is
somewhat superior to creation, suj)erior
to knowledge and thought, and contains
all its circles. For ever it labours to
create a life and thought as large and ex-
cellent as itself ; but in vain ; for that
which is made instructs how to make a
botter.
Thus there is no sleep, no pause, no
preservation, but all things renew, germi-
nate, and spring. Why should we imx)ort
rags and relics into the new hour ? Nature
abliors the old, and old ago seems the
only disease ; all others run into this one.
We call it by many names — fever, intem-
perance, insanity, stupidity, and crime ;
they are all forms of old age ; they are
rest, conservatism, appropriation, inertia,
not newness, not the way onward. We
grizzle every day. I see no need of it.
Whilst we converse with what is above
us, we do not grow old, but grow young.
Infancy, youth, receptive, aspiring, with
religious eye looking upward, counts it-
self 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
©yes 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 mo*
ment is new ; the past always swallowed
and forgotten ; the coming only is sacred.
Nothing is secure but life, transition, the
energising spirit. No love can be bound
by oath or covenant to secure it against a
higher love. No truth so sublime but it
may be trivial to-morrow in the light of
! new thoughts. People wish to be settled ;
only as far a? they are unsettled is there
any hope for them.
Life is a series of surprises. Wo do
not guess to-day the mood, the pleasure,
the power of to-morrow, when we are
building up our being. Of lower states —
of acts of routine and sense — we can tell
somewhat ; but the masterjiieces of God,
the total growths and universal move-
ments of the soul, he hideth ; they are in-
; calculable. I can know that truth is
divine and helpful ; but how it shall help
me I can have no guess, for so to be is the
sole inlet of so to know. The new posi-
tion of the advancing man has all the
powers of the old, yet has them all new.
It carries in its bosom all the energies of
the past, yet is itself an exhalation of the
morning. I cast away in this new mo-
ment all my orxe hoarded knowledge, as
vacant and vain. Now, for the first time,
seem I to know anything rightly. The
simplest v/ords — we do not knov/ what
they mean, except when we love and
asjiire.
The difference between talents and
character is adroitness to keep the old
and trodden round, and power and courage
to make a new road to new and better
goals. Character makes an overpowering
present; a cheerful, determined hour,
which fortifies all the company, by making
them see that much is possible and ex-
cellent that was not thought of. Character
dulls the impression of particular events.
When we see the conqueror, we do not
think much of any one battle or success.
We see that we had exaggerated the difli-
culty. It was easy to him. The great
man is not convulsible or tormentable;
events pass over him without much im-
pression. People say sometimes, “ See
what I have overcome ; see how cheerful
I am ; see how completely I have triumph-
ed over tneso black events.” Not if they
still remind mo of the black event. True
conquest is the causing the calamity to
fade and disappear, as an early cloud of
insignificant result in a history so large
and advancing.
The one thing whicH we seek with kr-
INTELLECT. 8i
satiable desire is to forget ourselves, to said Oliver Cromwell, "never rises s«
be surprised out of our propriety, to lose high as when he knows not whither he is
our sempiternal memory, and to do some- going." Dreams and drunkenness, the
thing without knowing how or why ; in use of opium and alcohol are the sem-
gliort, to draw a new circle. Nothing blance and counterfeit of this oracular
great was ever achieved without enthu- genius, and hence their dangerous attrac-
siasm. The way of life is wonderful ; it tion for men. For the like reason, they
is by abandonment. The great moments ask the aid of wild passions, as in gaming
of history are the facilities of performance and war, to ape in some manner these
through the strength of ideas, as the flames and generosities of the hearti
works of genius and religion. " A man,"
INI
Go, speed the stars of Thought
On to their shining goals ;
The sower scatters broad his seed,
The wheat thou strew’st be souls.
Every substance is negatively electric to
that which stands above it in the chemi-
cal tables, positively to that which stands
below it. Water dissolves wood, and iron,
and salt ; air dissolves water ; electric
fire dissolves air, but the intellect dis-
solves fire, gravity, laws, method, and
the subtlest unnamed relations of na-
ture, in its resistless menstruum. In-
tellect lies behind genius, which is intel-
lect constructive. Intellect is the simple
power anterior to all action or construc-
tion. Gladly would I unfold in calm de-
grees a natural history of the intellect, but
what man has yet been able to mark the
steps and boundaries of that transparent
essence ? The first questions are always
to be asked, and the wisest doctor is
gravelled by the inquisitiveness of a
child. How can we speak of the action of
the mind under any divisions, as of its
knowledge, of its ethics, of its works, and
so forth, since it melts will into percep-
tion, knowledge into act ? Each becomes
the other. Itself alone is. Its vision is
not like the vision of the eye, but is union
uilh the things known.
Intellect and intellection signify to the
common ear consideration of abstract
truth. The considerations of time and
place, of you and me, of profit and hurt,
tyrannise 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
Bake. Heraclitus looked upon the affec-
tions as dense and coloured mists. In the
fog of good and evil affections, it is hard
ioff txum to walk forward in a straight line*
ELLECT.
Intellect is void of affectioa, and sees an
object as it stands in the light of science,
cool and disengaged. The intellect goes
out of the individual, floats over its own
personality, and regards it as a fact, and
not as I and mine. He who is immersed
in what concerns person or place cannot
vsee the problem of existence. This the
intellect always ponders. Nature shows
all things formed and bound. The intel-
lect pierces the form, overleaps the wall,
detects intrinsic likeness between remote
things, and reduces all things into a few
principles.
The making a fact the subject of thought
raises it. All that mass of mental and
moral phenomena, which we do not make
objects of voluntary thought, come within
the power of fortune ; they constitute the
circumstance of daily life ; they are sub-
ject to change, to fear, and hope. Every
man beholds his human condition with o.
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 intellect, is no longer a
subject of destiny, VVe behold it as a
god upraised above care and fear. And
so any fact in our life, or any record of
our fancies or reflections, disentangled
from the web of our unconsciousness, be-
comes an object impersonal and immortal.
It is the past restored, but embalmed. A
better art than that of Egypt has taken
fear and corruption out of it. It is evisce-
rated of care. It is offered for science.
What is addressed to us for contempla-
tion does not threaten us, but makes ua
intellectual beings.
The growth of the intellect is sponta-
neous in every expansion. The mind
that grows could not predict thi? times,
the means, the mode of that tpootaneity,
8 ;)
ESSAYS.
God entefft by a private door into every
individual. Long prior to the age of re-
fiection 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 crea-
tion after its own way. Whatever any
mind doth or saith is after a law ; and this
native law remains over it after it has
come to reflection or conscious thought.
In the most worn, pedantic, introverted
self-tormentor’s life, the greatest part is
incalculable by him, unforeseen, unimagin-
able, and must be, until he can take him-
self up by his own ears. What am I ?
What has my will done to make me that I
am ? Nothing. I have been floated into
this thought, this hour, this connection of
events, by secret currents of might and
mind, and my ingenuity and wilfulness
have not thwarted, have not aided to an
appreciable degree.
Our spontaneous action is always the
best. You cp.nnot, with your best delibera-
tion and heed, come so close to any ques-
tion as your spontaneous glance shall
bring you, whilst you rise from your bed,
or walk abroad in the morning after medi-
tating the matter before sleep on the pre-
vious night. Our thing is a pious recep-
tion. Our truth of thought is therefore
vitiated as much by too violent direction
given by our will , as by too great negligence.
We do not determine what v/e will think.
We only open our senses, clear away, as
we can, all obstruction from the fact, and
suffer the intellect to see. We have little
control over our thoughts. We are the
prisoners of ideas. They catch us up for
moments into their heaven, and so fully
engage us, that we take no thought for
the morrow, gaze like children, without
an effort to make them our own. By and
by we fall out of that rapture, bethink us
where we have been, what we have seen,
and repeat, as truly as we can, v/hat we
have beheld. As far as we can recall
these ecstasies, v.^e carry away in the in-
effaceable memory the result, and all men
and all the ages confirm it. It is called
Truth, But the moment we cease to re-
port, and attempt to correct and contrive,
it is not Truth.
If we consider what persons have stim-
ulated and profited us, we shall perceive
the superiority of the spontaneous or in-
tuitive principle over the arithmetical or
logical. The first contains the second,
but virfaal and latent. We want, in every
man, a long logic ; we cannot pardon the
absence of it, but it must not be spoke?»«
Logic is the procession of proportionate
unfolding of the intuition; but its virtue
is as silent method ; the moment it would
appear as propositions, and have a sepa-
rate value, it is worthless.
In every man’s mind, some images^
words, and facts remain, without effort on
his part to imprint them which others
forget, and afterwards these illustrate to
him important laws. All our progress is
an unfolding, like the vegetable bud. You
have first an instinct, then an opinion,
then a knowledge, as the plant has rootr
bud, and fruit. Trust the instinct to the
end, though you Ccan render no reason. It
is vain to hurry it. By trusting it to the
end, it shall ripen into truth, and you
shall know why you believe.
Each mind has its own method. A true
man never acquires after college rules.
What you have aggregated in a nature!
manner surprises and delights when it is
produced. For we cannot oversee each
other’s secret. And hence the differences
between men in natural endowment aro
insignificant in comparison with their
common wealth. Do you think the porter
and the cook have no anecdotes, no ex.
periences, no v/ondors for you ? Every*
body knows as much as the savant. The
walls cf rude minds are scrawled over
with facts, with thoughts. They shall one
day bring a lantern and read the inscrip-
tions. Every man, in the degree in which
he has wit and culture, finds his curiosity
inflamed concerning the modes of living
and thinking of other men, and especially
of those classes whose minds have not
been subdued by the drill of school edu-
cation.
This instinctive action never ceases in
a healthy mind, but becomes richer and
more frequent in its informations through
all states of culture. At last comes tho
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 converse, whilst we
read, whilst we act, intent to learn the
secret law of some class of facts.
Wliat is the hardest task in the world t
To think. I would put myself in the atti-
tude 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 sea
God face to face and live. For example,
a man explores the basis of civil govern-
ment. Let him intend his mind withoul
INTELLECT.
respite, without rest, in one direction.
His best heed long time avails him no-
thing. Yet thoughts are flitting before
him. V/e all but apprehend, we dimly j
forbode the truth. We say, I will walk |
abroad, and the truth will take form and |
clearness to me. We go forth, but cannot
find it. It seems as if we needed only the
Btillness and composed attitude of the
library to seize the thought. But we come
in, and are as far from it as at first. Then,
in a moment, and unannounced, the truth
appears, A certain wandering light ap-
pears, and is the distinction, the prin-
.ciple, wo wanted. But the oracle comes,
because wo had previously laid siege to
the shrine. It seems as if the law of the
intellect resembled that law of nature by
which we now inspire, now expire the
breath ; by which the heart now draws in,
then hurls out the blood — the law of un-
dulation. So now you must labour with
your brains, and now you must forbear
your activity, and see what the great Soul
Bhoweth.
The immortality of man is as legiti-
mately preached from the intellections as
from the moral volitions. Every intellec-
tion is mainly prospective. Its present
value is its least. Inspect v;hat delights
you in Plutarch, in Shakespeare, in Cer-
vantes. Each truth that a writer acquires
is a lantern, which he turns full on what
facts and thouglUs lay already in his mind, ,
and behold, all the mats and rubbish
wliich had littmed his garret becomes
precious. Every trivial fact in his private
biography becomes an illustration of this
nev/ principle, revisits the day, and de-
lights all men by its piquancy and new
charm. Men say, Where did he get this ?
arid tliink 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 be-
tween persons is not in wisdom but in art.
I knew, in an academical club, a person
who always deferred to me, who, seeing
my whim for writing, fancied that my ex-
periences 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 Shakespeare, we should
not be conscious of any steep inferiority;
fco ; but of a great equality-- only that he
possessed a strange skill of using, 04 tlassi-
fying, his facts, which we lacked. For,
notwithstanding our utter incapacity to
produce anything like Hamlet and Othello,
see the perfect reception this wit, and
immense knowledge of life, and liquid
eloquence find in us all.
If you gather apples in the sunshine, or
make hay, or hoe corn, and then retire
v/ithin 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 tliereto, or the tasselled
grass, or the corn-flags, and this for five or
six hours afterwards. There lie the im-
pressions on the retentive organ though
you knew it not. So lies the whole series
of natural images with which your life has
made you acquainted in your memory,
though you know it not, and a thrill of
passion flashes light on their dark cham
ber, 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 iiistory, we are sure, is quite
tame: we have nothing to write, nothing
to infer. But our wiser years still run
back to the despised recollectionsof child-
hood, and always we are fishing up some
wonderful article out of that pond ; until,
by and by, we begin to suspect th.it the
biography of the one foolish person we
know is, in reality, nothing less than the
miniature pp^raphrase of the hundred
volumes of the Universal History.
In the intellect constructive, which wa
popularly designate by the word Genius,
we observe the same balance of two
elements as in intellect receptive. Tha
constructive intellect produces thoughts,
sentences, poems, plans, designs, systems.
It is the generation of the mind, the mar-
riage of thought with nature. To genius
must always go two gifts, the thought and
the publication. The first is revelation,
always a miracle, which no frequency of
occurrence or incessant study can ever
familiarise, but which must always leava
the inquirer stupid with wonder. It is tho
advent of trutli into the world, a form of
thought now, for the first time, bursting
into the universe, a child of the old eternal
soul, a piece of genuine and immeasurable
greatness. It seems, for tlie time, to in-
herit all that has yet existed, and to dic-
tate to the unborn. It affects every
thought of man, and goes to fashion every
institution. But to make it availajble, it
needs a vehicle or art by which it is con-
veyed to men, To be commumoable, it
ESSAYS.
84
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 in-
visible tlirough space, and only when it
falls on an object is it seen. When the
spiritual energy is directed on something
outward, then it is a thought. The rela-
tion between it and you first makes you,
the value .of you, apparent to me. The
rich, inventive genius of the painter must
be smothered and lost for want of the
power of drawing, and in our happy hours
we should be inexhaustible poets, if once
we could break through the silence into
adequate rhyme. As all men have some
access to primary truth, so all have some
art or power of communication in their
head, but only in the artist does it descend
into the hand. There is an inequality,
whose laws we do not yet know, betv/een
two men and between two momenta of the
same man, in respect to this faculty. In
common, hours we have the same facts as
in the uncommon or inspired, but they do
not sit for their portraits ; they are not
detached, but lie in a web. The thought
of genius is spontaneous ; but the power
of picture or expression, in the most en-
riched and flowing nature, implies a mix-
ture of will, a certain control over the
spontaneous states, without which no pro-
duction is possible. It is a conversion of
all nature into the rhetoric of thought,
under the eye of judgment, with a strenu-
ous exercise of choice. And yet the
imaginative vocabulary seems to be spon-
taneous also. It does not flow from expe-
rience only or mainly, but from a richer
source. Not by any conscious imitation
of particular forms are the grand strokes
of the painter executed, but by repairing
to the fountain-head of all forms in hia
mind. Who is the first drawing-master ?
Without instruction we know very well the
ideal of the human form. A child knows
if an arm or a leg be distorted in a picture,
if the attitude be natural, or grand, or
mean, though he has never received any
instruction in drawing, or heard any con-
versation on the subject, nor can himself
draw correctly a single feature. A good
form strikes all eyes pleasantly, long be-
fore they have any science on the subject,
and a beautiful face sets twenty hearts in
palpitation, prior to all consideration of
the mechanical proportions of the features
and head. We may owe to dreams some
light dn the fountain of this skill ; for, as
soon as we let our will go, and let the un-
I conscious states ensue, seo what cunning
I draughtsmen we are ! We entertain our-
selves 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
colours are well laid on, and the whole
canvas which it paints is lifelike, and apt
to touch us with terror, v/ith tenderness,
with desire, and with grief. Neither are
the artist’s copies from experience ever
mere copies, but always touched and
softened by tints from this ideal domain.
The conditions essential to a construc-
tive mind do not appear to be so often
combined but that a good sentence or
verse remains fresh and memorable for a
long time. Yet when we write with ease,
and come out into the free air of thought,
we seem to be assured that nothing is
easier than to continue tins comm\inica-
tion at pleasure. Up, down, around, the
kingdom of thought has no enclosures,
but the Muse makes us free of her city.
Well, the world has a million writers.
One would think, then, that good thought
would be as familiar as air and water, and
the gifts of each new hour would exclude
the last. Yet we can count all our good
books; nay, I remember any beautiful
verse for twenty years. It is true that the
discerning intellect of the world is alwaya
much in advance of the creative, so that
there are many competent judges of the
best book, and few writers of the best
books. But some of the conditions of in-
tellectual construction are of rare oc-
currence, The intellect is a whole, and
demands integrity in every work. This
is resisted equally by a man’s devotion to
a single thought, and by his ambition to
combine too many.
Truth is our element of life, yet if a man
fasten his attention on a single aspect of
truth, and apply himself to that alone for
a long time, the truth becomes distorted
and not itself, but falsehood ,* herein
resembling the air, which is our natural
element, and the breath of our nostrils,
but if a stream of the same be directed on
the body for a time, it causes cold, fever,
and even death. How wearisome the
grammarian, the phrenologist, the politi-
cal or religious fanatic, or indeed any
possessed mortal whose balance is lost by
the exaggeration of a single topic. It is
incipient insanity. Every thought is 1
prison also. I cannot see what you see’
INTELLECT.
because 1 am caught up by a strong wind,
and blown so far in one direction that I
am out of the hoop of your horizon.
Is it any better, if the student, to avoid
this offence, and to liberalise himself,
aims to make a mechanical whole of his-
tory, or science, or philosophy, by a
numerical addition of all the facts that
fall within his vision ? The world refuses
to be analysed by addition and subtrac-
tion. When W3 are young, we spend much
time and pains in filling our note-books
with all definitions of Religion, Love,
Poetry, Politics, Art, in the hope that, in
the course of a few years, we shall have
condensed into our encyclopaedia the net
value -of all the theories at which the
world has yet arrived. But 3 ^ear after
year our tables get no completeness, and
at last we discover that our curve is a
parabola, whose arcs will never meet.
Neither by detachment, neither by ag-
gregation, is the integrity of the intellect
transmitted to its works, but by a vigilance
which brings the intellect in its greatness
and best state to operate every moment.
It must have the same wholeness which
nature has. Although no diligence can
rebuild the universe in a model, by the
best accumulation or disposition of details,
yet does the world reappear in miniature
in every event, so that all the laws of
nature may be read in the smallest fact.
The intellect must have the like perfection
in its apprehension and in its works. For
this reason, an index or mercury of in-
tellectual proficiency is the perception of
identity. We talk with accomplished per-
sons who appear to be strangers in nature.
The cloud, the tree, the turf, the bird are
not theirs, have nothing of them; the!
world is only their lodging and table. |
But the poet, whose verses are to be
spheral and complete, is one whom Na-
ture cannot deceive, whatsoever face of
strangeness she may put on. He feels a
stict consanguinity, and detects more like-
ness than variety in all her changes. We
are stung by the desire of new thought ;
but when we receive a new thought, it is
only the old thought with a new face, and
though we make it our own, we instantly
crave another ; we are not really enriched.
For the truth was in us before it was re-
flected to us from natural objects; and
tjie profound genius will cast the likeness
of all creatures into every produci of his
wit.
But if the constructive powers are rare,
it is given lo few men to be poets, yet
©very man is a receiver of this descending
85
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. Ho must v;orship truth, and
forego all things for that, and choose
defeat and pain, so that his treasure in
thought is thereby augmented,
God offers to every mind its choice
between truth and repose. Take which
you please— you can "never have both.
Between these, as a pendulum, man
oscillates. He in whom the love of repose
predominates will accept tlie first creed,
the first philosophy, the first political
party he meets — most likely his father’s.
He gets rest, commodity, and reputation ;
but he shuts the door of truth. He in
whom the love of truth predominates will
keep himself aloof from all moorings, and
afloat. He will abstain from dogmatism,
and recognise all the opposite negations,
between which, as walls, his being is
swung. He submits to the inconvenience
of suspense and imperfect opinion, bu^
he is a candidate for truth, as the other is
not, and respects the highest law of his
being.
The circle of the green earth he must
measure with his shoes, to find the man
who can yield him truth. He shall then
know that there is somewhat more blessed
and great in hearing than in speaking.
Happy is the hearing man ; unhappy the
speaking man. As long as I hear truth, I
am bathed by a beautiful element, and am
not conscious of any limits to my nature.
The suggestions are 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 Socrates speaks. Lysis and
Menexenus are afflicted by no shame that
they do not speak. They also are good.
He likewise defers to them, loves them
whilst he speaks. Because a true and
natural man contains and is the same
truth which an eloquent man articulates :
but in the eloquent man, because he can
articulate it, it seems something the less
to reside, and he turns to these silent
beautiful with the more inclination and
respect. The ancient sentence said, Let
us be silent, for so are the gods. Silence
is a solvent that destroys personality, and
gives us leave to be g^eat and universal,
Every man's progress is through a succes-
sion of teachers, each of whom seems at
the time to have a superlative influence,
but it at last gives place to a new, Frankly
86
ESSAYS.
let him accept k all. Jesus says, Leave
father, mother, house, and lands, and
follow me, Who leaves all, receives more.
This is as true intellectually as morally.
Each new mind wo approach seems to
require an abdication of all our past and
present possessions. A new doctrine
seems, at first, a subversion of all our
opinions, tastes, and manner of living.
Such has Swedenborg, such has Kant,
such has Coleridge, such has ITegel or his
interpreter Cousin, seemed to many 5 oung
men in this country. Take tliankfully 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 unreser-
vedly to that which draws him, because
that is lus own, ho is to refuse himself to
that which draws him not, whatsoever
fame and authority may attend it, because
it is not his own. Entire self-reliance
belongs to the intellect. One soul is a
counterpoise of all souls, as a capillary
column of water is a balance for the sea.
It must treat things, and books, and sove-
reign genius, as itself, also a sovereign.
If iEschylus be that man he is taken for,
he has not yet done his office, when he
has educated the learned of Europe for a
thousand years. He is now to approve
himself a master of delight to me also.
If he cannot do that, all his fame shall
avail him nothing with me. I were a fool
not to sacrifice a thousand iEschyluses to
my intellectual integrity. Especially take
the same ground in regard to abstract
truth, the science of the mind. The
Bacon, the Spinoza, the Hume, Schclling.
Kant, or whosoever propounds to you a
philosophy of the mind, is only a more or
less avv'kward translator of things in your
consciousness, which you have also your
way of seeing, perhaps of denominating.
Say, then, instead of too timidly poring
into his obscure sense, that he has not
succeeded in rendering back to you your
consciousness. He has not succeeded ;
now let another try. If Plato cannot,
perhaps Spinoza will. If Spinoza cannot,
then perhaps Kant, Anyhow, when at
last it is done, you will find it is no re-
condite^ but a simple, natural, common
State, which the writer restores to you, ,
But let us end these didactics, i will
not, though the subject might provoke it,
speak to the open question between Truth
and Love. I shall not presume to inter-
fere in the old politics of the skies —
“ The cherubim know most; the seraphim
love most.” The gods shall settle tb.eir
own quarrels. But I cannot recite, even
thus rudely, laws of the intellect, without
remembering that lofty and sequestered
class who have been its pia^phets and
oracles, the high-pricsthood of the pure
reason, the 7'risinegisii, tlie expounders
of the principles of thouglit 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 v/orship wliich makes the
sanctifies of Christianity look pavvemics
and popular; for ” pcrs\iasion is in soul,
but necessity is in intellect.” This band
of grandees, Hermes, Heraclitus, Empe-
doc’:es, Plato, Plotinus, Olympiodorus,
Proclus, Syncsius, and the rest, have
somev.'hat so vast in their logic, so primary
in their thinking, that it seems antecedent
to rdl the ordinary distinctions of rhetoriG
ard literature, and to be at once poetry,
and music, and dancing, and astronomy,
and mathematics. I am present nt tho
sowing of the seed of tiie world. Witii a
geometry of sunbeams, Uie soul lays tho
foundations of nature. The truth and
grandeur of their thought is proved by its
scope and applicability, for it commands
the entire schedule and inventory of things
for its illustration. But wliat marks its
elevation, and has even a comic look to
us, is the innocent serenity with which
these babe-like Jupiters sit in their clouds,
and from age to age prattle to each other,
and to no contemporary. Well assured
that their speech is intelligible, and tha
most natural thing in the world, they add
thesis to thesis, without a moment’s heed
of the universal astonishment of tha
human race below, who do not compre-
hend their plainest argument ; nor do
they ever relent so much as to insert a
popular or explaining sentence ; nor
testify the least displeasure or petulance
at the dulness of their amazed auditory.
The angels are so enamoured of the lan-
guage that is spoken in heaven, that they
will not distort their lips v/ith the hissing
and unmusical dialects of men, but speak
their own, whether there bo any who
understand it pr not.
ART,
Give to barrows, trays, ant! pans
Oiace and glimmer of romance:
Briii'-j the moonlijdit into noon
Hid ill Kieairiirif» piles of stone;
On the city’s paved sti;eet
Plant gardens lined v/ith Idac sw^et;
Let spouting fountains cool the air,
Singing in the sun-baked ^qnaro ;
Let statue, pirtnre, park, and hall.
Ballad, Hag, and lesiivnl,
The past restore, the day adorn,
And make each morrow a new mora.
So shall the drudge in dusty frock
Spy behiml the city clock
Kctimies of airy kings,
Skirts of angels, stany wings,
His lathers shining in luight fables,
His children led at lu!aveiily tables.
T'is the privilege ot Art
Thus to play its cheerful part,
Man in LartU to acclimate,
And bend the exile to his fate,
And, moulded of one element
With the days and firmameat,
Tcacli him on these as stairs to climb,
And live on even terms with Time;
VVhilst upper life tlie slendiu' rill
Of human sense doth overfill.
Because the soul is pro^i^rcssive, it never
finite repeats itself, but in every act
attempts the production of a new and
fairer whole. This appears in works both
of the useful and the fine arts, if we
employ the popular distinction of works
according to their aim either at use or
beauty. Thus in our fine arts, no imita-
tion, but creation, is tho aim. In land-
scapes, tho painter should give the
suggestion of a fairer creation than we
know. Tho details, the jufosc of nature
he should omit, and give us only the
spirit and splendcar. He should know
that the landscape has bvcauty for his eye,
because it expresses a thought which is to
him good : and this, bccauso the same
|X)wer which sees through his eyes is seen
in that spectacle ; and he will come to
▼alue the expression of nature, and not
nature itself, and so exaic in his copy the
features that please him. He will give
the gloom of gloom, and tho sunshine of
Bunshine. In a portrait, he must inscribe
the character, and not tho features, and
must esteem the man who sits to him as
himself only an imperfect picture or like-
ness of the aspiring original within.
What is that abridgment and selection
we observe in all spiritual activity, but
Itself the creative impulse ? for it is the
inlet of that highei illumination which
teaches to convey a larger ser.se 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 tliau the horizon figures —
nature’s eclecticism ? and what is his
speech, his love of painting, love of nature,
but a still finer success ? all the w’eary
miles and tons of space and bulk left out,
and the spirit or moral of it contracted
into a musical word, cr 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 tho
old. Tho Genius of tho Hour sets his
ineffaceable seal on the work, and gives
it an inexpressible charm for the imagina-
tion. As far as the spiritual character of
j the period overpowers the artist, and
finds expression in his work, so far it will
retain a certain grandeur, and will
represent to future beliolders the Un-
known, the Inevitable, the Divine. No
man can quite exclude this element of
Necessity from his labour. No man can
quite emancipate himself from his age
and country, or produce a model in which
the education, the religion, the politics,
usages, and arts, of his time shall have no
share. Though he were never so original,
never so vdlful and fantastic, he cannot
wipe out of his work every trace of tho
thoughts amidst which it grew. The very
avoidance betrays tho usage he avoids.
Above his will, and out of his sight, he is
necessitated, by the air he breathes, and
tho idea on which he and his contempo-
raries live and toil, to share the manner of
his times, without knowing what that
manner is. Now that which is inevitable
in the work has a higher charm than
individual talent can ever give, inarnnuch
as the artist’s pen or chisel seems to have
been held and guided by a gigantic hand
to inscribe a line in the history of the
human race. This circumstance gives a
value to the Egyptian hieroglyphics, to tho
Indian, Chinese, and Mexican idols, Iiovv-
ever gross and shapeless. They denote
the height of the human soul in that hour,
and were not fantastic, but sprung frJhi a
necessity as deep as the world. Shall I
now add, that th© whoJ© extant product of
ESSAYS.
S8
the plastic arts has herein its highest
value, as history ; as a stroke drawn in the
portrait of that fate, perfect and beautiful,
according to whose ordinations all beings
advance to their beatitude ?
Thus, historically viewed, it has been
the office of art to educate the perception
of beauty. We are immersed in beauty,
but our eyes have no clear vision. It
needs, by the exhibition of single traits, to
assist and lead the dormant taste. We
carve and paint, or we behold what is
carved and painted, as students of the
mystery of Form. The virtue of art lies
in detachment, in sequestering one object
from the embarrassing variety. Until one
thing comes out from the connection of
things, there can be enjoyment, con-
templation, but no thought. Our happi-
ness and unhappiness are unproductive.
The infant lies in a pleasing trance, but
his individual character and his practical
power depend on his daily progress in the
separation of things, and dealing with one
at a time. Love and all the passions con-
centrate all existence around a single form.
It is the habit of certain minds to give an
all-excluding fullness to the object, the
thought, the word, they alight upon, and
to make that for the time the deputv of
the world. These are the artists, the
orators, the leaders of society. The
power to detach, and to magnify by
detaching, is the essence of rhetoric in
the hands of the orator and poet. This
rhetoric, or power to fix the momentary
eminency of an object — so remarkable in
Burke, in Byron, in Carlyle — the painter
and sculptor exhibit in colour and in stone.
The power depends on the depth of the
artist’s insight of that object he contem-
plates. For every object has its roots in
central nature, and may of course be so
exhibited to us as to represent the v/orld.
Therefore, each work of genius is the
tyrant of the hour, and concentrates atten-
tion on itself. For the time, it is the only
thing worth naming to do that— be it a
sonnet, an opera, a landscape, a statue,
an oration, the plan of a temple, of a
campaign, or of a voyage of discovery.
Presently we pass to some other object,
which rounds itself into a whole, as did
the first ; for example, a well-laid garden :
and nothing seems worth doing but the
laying out of gardens. I should think the
fire the best thing in the world, if I were
not acquainted with air, and water, and
cartih For it is the right and property of
All natural objects, of all genuine talents,
of all native properties whatsoever, to be
I for their moment the top of the world.
A squirrel leaping from bough to bough,
and making the wood but one wide tree
for his pleasure, fills the eye not less than
a lion — is beautiful, self-sufficing, and
stands then and there for nature, A good
ballad draws my ear and heart whilst I
listen, as much as an epic has done before.
A dog, drawn by a master, or a litter of
pigs, satisfies, and is a reality not less
than the frescoes of Angelo. From this
succession of excellent objects, we learn
at last t^e immensity of the world, the
opulence of human nature, which can run
out to infinitude in any direction. But I
also leatn that what astonished and
fascinated me in the first work astonished
mo in the second w'ork also; that
excellence of all things is one.
The office of painting and sculpture
seems to De merely initial. The best pic-
tures can easily tell us their last secret.
The besY pictures are rude draughts of a
few of the miraculous dots and lines and
dyes which make up the ever-changing
“landscape with figures” amidst which
we dw'ell. Painting seems to be to the eye
what dancing is to the limbs. When that
has educ.ated the frame to self-possession,
to nimbleness, to grace, the steps of the
dancing master are better forgotten; so
painting teaches me the splendour of
colour and the expression of form; and,
as I see many pictures and higher genius
in the art, I see the boundless opulence of
the pencil, the indiflerency in which the
artist stands free to choose out of the
possible forms. If he can draw every-
thing, why draw anything ? and then is
my eye opened to the eternal picture
which nature paints in the street wdth
moving men and children, beggars, and
fine ladies, draped in red, and green, and
blue, and grey; long-haired, grizzled,
white-faced, black-faced, wrinkled, giant,
dwarf, expanded, elfish — capped and based
by heaven, earth, and sea.
A gallery of sculpture teaches more
austerely the same lesson. As picture
teaches the colouring, so sculpture the
anatomy of form. When I have seen fine
statues, and afterwards enter a public as-
sembly, I understand well w'hat he meant
whu said, “ When I have been reading
Homer, all men look like giants.” I too
see that painting and sculpture are gym-
nastics of the eye, its training to the nice-
ties and curiosities of its function. Ther®
is no statue like this living man, with hia
infinite advantage over all ideal sculpture,
of perpetual variety, What a gallery of
art have I here 1 No mannerist made these
varied groups and diverse original single
(igurcs> Here is the artist himself impro*
vising, grim and glad, at his block. Now
one thought strikes him, now another, and
with each moment he alters the whole air,
attitude, and expression of his clay. Away
with your nonsense of oil and easels, of
marble and chisels : except to open your
eyes to the masteries of eternal art, they
are hypocritical rubbish.
The reference of all production at last
to an aboriginal Power explains the traits
common to all works of the highest art —
that they are universally intelligible; that
they restore to us the simplest states of
mind ; and are religious. Since what skill
is therein shown is the reappearance of
the original soul, a jet of pure light, it
should produce a similar impression to
that made by natural objects. In happy
hours, nature appears to us one with art ;
art perfected —the work of genius. And
the individual, in whom simple tastes and
susceptibility to all the great human in-
fluences overpower the accidents of a local
and special culture, is the best critic of
art. Though we travel the world over to ;
find the beautiful, we must carry it with
us, or we find it not. The best of beauty
is a finer charm than skill in surfaces, in
outlines, or rules of art can ever teach,
namely, a radiation from the work of art
cf human character— a wonderful expres-
sion through stone, or canvas, or musical
sound, of the deepest and simplest attri-
butes 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,
end hope, breathes from them all. That
which we carry to them, the same we
bring back more fairly illustrated in the
meraory. The traveller who visits the
Vatican, and passes from chamber to
chamber through galleries of statues,
vases, sarcophagi, and candelabra, through
all forms of beauty, cut in the richest
materials, is in danger of forgetting ihc
simplicity of the principles out of which
they all sprung, suid that they had their
origin from thoughts and laws in his own
breast. He studies the technical rules on
these wonderful remains, but forgets that
these works were not always thus constel-
lated ; that they are the contributions of
many ages and many countries ; that each
came out of the solitary workshop of one
artist, who toiled perhaps in ignorance of
the existence of other sculpture, created
his work without other model, save life,
household life, and the sweet and smart
of personal relations, of beating hearts
and meeting eyes, of poverty, and neces-
sity, and hope, and fear. These were his
inspirations, and these are the effects ha
carries home to your heart and mind. In
proportion to his force, the artist will find
in his work an outlet for his proper cha-
racter. He must not be in any manner
pinched or hindered by his material, but
through his necessity of imparting him-
self, the adamant will be wax in his hands,
and will allow an adequate communication
of himself, in his full stature and propor-
tion. He need not cumber himself with a
conventional nature and culture, nor ask
what is the mode in Rome or in Paris,
but that house, and weather, and manner
of living which poverty and the fate of
birth have made at once so odious and sa
dear, in the grey, unpainted wood cabin,
on the corner of a New Hampshire farm,
or in the log-hut of the backwoods, or in
the narrow lodging where he has endured
the constraints and seeming of a city
poverty, will serve as well as any other
condition as the symbol of a thought
v/hich pours itself indifferently through
all.
I remember, when in my younger days
I had heard of the wonders of Italian
painting, I fancied the great pictures
would be great strangers ; some surprising
combination of colour and form ; a foreign
wonder, barbaric pearl and gold, like the
spontoons and standards of the militia,
which play such pranks in the eyes and
imaginations of schoolboys. I was to see
and acquire I knew not what, When I
came at last to Rome, and saw with eyes
the pictures, I found that genius left to
novices the gay and fantastic and ostenta-
tious, and itself pierced directly to the
simple and true; that it v/as familiar and
sincere ; that it was the old, eternal fact I
had met already in so many forms—unto
which I lived ; that it was the plain you
and me I knew so well — had left at home
in so many conversations. I had the same
experience already in a church at Naples.
There I saw that nothing was changed
with me but the place, and said to myself,
“ Thou foolish child, hast thou come out
hither, over four thousand miles of salt
water, to find that which was perfect to
thee there at homo?” That fact I saw
a^ain in the Acadommia at in the
ESSAYS.
90
chambers of sculpture, and yet again when
I came to Rome, and to the paintings of
Raphael, Angelo, Sacchi, Titian, and
Leonardo da Vinci. “ What, old mole !
workest thou in the earth so fast?** It
had travelled by my side ; that which I
fancied I had left in Boston was here in
the Vatican, and again at Milan, and at
Paris, and made all travelling ridiculous
as a treadmill. I now require this of all
pictures, that they domesticate me, not
that they dazzle me. Pictures must not
be too picturesque. Nothing astonishes
men so much as common sense and plain
dealing. All great actions have been
simple, and all great pictures are.
The Trpmsfiguratioii, by Raphael, is an
eminent example of this peculiar merit.
A calm, benignant beauty shines over all
this picture, and goes directly to the heart.
It seems almost to call you by name. The
sweet and sublime face of Jesus is beyond
praise, yet how it disappoints all florid
expectations 1 This familiar, simple,
home-speaking countenance is as if one
should meet a friend. The knowledge of
picture-dealers has its value, but listen
not to their criticism when your heart is
touched by genius. It was not painted for
them, it was painted for you ; for such as
had eyes capable of being touched by
simplicity and lofty emotions.
Yet when we have said all our fine things
about the arts, we must end with a frank
confession, that the arts, as we know them,
are but initial. Our best praise is given
to what they aimed and promised, not to
the actual result, Ho has conceived
meanly of the resources of man, who be-
lieves that the best age of production is
past. The real value of the Iliad, or the
Transfiguration, is as signs of power;
billows or ripples they are of the stream
of tendency ; tokens of the everlasting
effort to produce, which even in its worst
estate the soul betrays. Art has not yet
come to its maturity, if it do not put itself
abreast with the most potent influences
of the world, if it is not practical and
moral, if it do not stand in connection
with the conscience, if it do not make the
poor and uncultivated feel that it addresses
them with a voice of lofty cheer. There is
higher work for Art than the arts. They
are abortive births of an imperfect or
vitiated instinct. Art is the need to create ;
but in its essence, immense and universal,
it is impatient of working with lame or
tied hands, and of making cripples and
monsfers, such as all pictures and statues
Nothing less than the creation of
man and nature is its end. A roan should
find in it an outlet for his whole energy,
lie may paint and carve only as long as
he can do that. Art should exhilarate,
and throw down the walls of circumstance
on every side, awakening in the beholder
the same sense of universal relation and
power which the v/ork evinced in the
artist, and its highest effect is to make
new artists.
Already History is old enough to wit-
ness the old age and disappearance of
particular arts, The art of sculpture is
long ago perished to any real eflect. 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
splendour of effect. But it is the game of
a rude and youthful people, and not tha
manly labour of a wise and spiritual
nation. Under an oak-trea 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 espe-
cially of sculpture, creation is driven into
a corner. I cannot hide from myself tha^:
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 mo-
ment when it becomes frivolous. I do not
wonder that Newton, with an attention
habitually engaged on the paths of planets
and suns, should have wondered what the
Earl of Pembroke found to admire in
“ stone dolls.” Scripture may serve to
teach the pupil how deep is the secret of
form, how purely the spirit can translate
its meanings into that eloquent dialect.
But the statue will look cold and false be-
fore that new activity which needs to roll
through all things, and is impatient of
counterfeits, and things not alive. Picture
and sculpture are the celebrations and
festivities of form. But true art is never
fixed, but always flowing. The sweetest
music is not in the oratorio, but in tha
human voice when it speaks from its in-
stant life tones of tenderness, truth, or
cou»*age. The oratorio has already lost
its relation to the morning, to the sun,
and the earth, but that persuading voice
is in tune with these. All works of art
should not be detached, but extempore
performances. A great man ia a new
statue in every attitude and action. A
beautiful woman is a picture which drives
ART.
9 *
ail beholders nobly mad. Life may be
lyric or epic, as well as a poem or a ro-
mance.
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 sepa-
rate and contrasted existence. The foun-
tains of invention and beauty in modern
society are all but dried up. A popular
novel, a theatre, or a ball-room makes us
feel that we are all paupers in the alms-
house of this world, without dignity, with-
out 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 fur-
nishes the sole apology for the intrusion
of such anomalous figures into nature—
namely, that they were inevitable ; that
the artist was drunk with a passion for
form wliich he could not resist, and which
vented itself in these fine extravagances —
no longer digmifies the chisel or the pencil, j
But ilic artist and the connoisseur now
seek in art the exhibition of their talent,
or an asylum from the evils of life. Men
are not well pleased with the figure they
make in their own imaginations, and they
flee to art, and convey their better sense
in an oratorio, a statue, or a picture, Art
makes the same effort which a sensual
prosperity makes ; namely, to detach the
beautiful from the useful, to do up the
v.^ork as unavoidable, and, hating it, pass
on to enjoyment. These solaces and com-
pensations, this division of beauty from
use, the laws of nature do not permit. As
Boon as beauty is sought, not from religion
and love, but for pleasure, it degrades the
seeker. High beauty is no longer attain-
able by him in canivas or in stone, in sound,
or in lyrical constructiou ; an effeminate,
prudent, sickly beauty, which is not beauty,
is all that can be formed ; for the hand
can never execute anything higher than
the character can inspire.
The art that thus separates is itself
first separated. Art must not be a super-
ficial talent, but must begin further back
in man. Now men do not see nature to
be beautiful, and they go to make a statue
which shall be. They abhor men as
tastleless, dull, and inconvertible, and
console themselves v/ith colour-bags, and
blocks of marble. They reject life as
prosaic, and create a death which they
call poetic. They despatch the day'i
weary chores, and fly to voluptuous rev-
eries. They eat and drink, that they
may afterwards execute the ideal. Thus
is art vilified ; the name conveys to the
mind its secondary and bad senses ; it
stands in the imagination as somewhat
contrary to nature, and struck with death
from the first. Would it not be better to
begin higher up — to serve the ideal before
they eat and drink ; to serve the ideal in
eating and drinking, in drawing the breath,
and in the functions of life ? Beauty
must come back to the useful arts, and
the distinction between the fine and the
useful arts be forgotten. If history were
truly told, if life were nobly spent, it
would be no longer easy or possible to
distinguish the oiie from the other. In
nature, all is useful, all is beautiful. It is
therefore beautiful, because it is alive,
moving, reproductive; it is therefore use-
ful, because it is symmetrical and fair.
Beauty will not come at the call of a
legislature, nor v/ill it repeat in England
or America its history in Greece, it will
come, as always, unannounced, and spring
up between the feet of brave and earnest
men. It is in vain that we look for genius
to reiterate its miracles in the old arts ; it
is its instinct to find beauty and holinesr
in new and necessary facts, in the field
and roadside, in the shop and mill. Pro-
ceeding from a religious heart it will
raise to a divine use the railroad, the in-
surance oftice, the joint-stock company,
our law, our primary assemblies, our com-
merce, the galvanic battery, the electric
jar, the prism, and the chemist's retort, in
which we seek now only an economical
use. Is not the selfish and even cruel as-
pect which belongs to our great me-
chanical works— to mills, railways, and
machinery — the effect of the mercenary
impulses which these works obey ? When
its errands are noble and adequate, a
steamboat bridging the Atlantic between
Old and New England, and arriving at its
ports with the punctuality of a planet, is
a step of man into harmony with nature.
The boat at St. Petersburg, which plies
along the Lena by magnetism, needs little
to make it sublime. When science is
learned in love, and its powers are wielded
by love, they will appear the supple-
ments and continuations of the materiM
creation.
9a
ESSAYS.
THE POET.
A mo«dy cbil4 and wildly wise
Pursued the game with joyful eyes,
Which chose, like meteors, their wayi
And rived the dark with private ray ;
They overleapt the horizon’s edge,
Searched with Apollo’s privilege;
Through man, and woman, and sea, and star.
Saw the dance of nature forward far;
Through worlds, and races, and terms, and
times,
Saw musical order, and pairing rhymee.
Olympian bards who sung
Divine ideas below,
Which always find us young,
And always keep us so.
Those who are esteemed umpires of
taste are often persons who have acquired
some knowledge of admired pictures or
sculptures, and have an inclination for
whatever is elegant ; but if you inquire
whether they are beautiful souls, and
whether their own acts are like fair pic-
tures, you learn that they are selfish and |
sensual. Their cultivation is local, as if I
you should rub a log of dry wood in one I
spot to produce fire, all the rest remain-
ing cold. Their knowledge of the fine
arts is some study of rules and particulars,
or some limited judgment of colour or
form, which is exercised for amusement
or for show. It is a proof of the shallow-
ness of the doctrine of beauty, as it lies
in the minds of our amateurs, that men
seem to have lost the perception of the
instant dependence of form upon soul.
There is no doctrine of forms!inour philo-
sophy. We were put into our bodies,
as fire is put into a pan, to be carried
about; but there is no accurate adjust-
ment between the spirit and the organ,
much less is the latter the germination of
the former. So in regard to other forms,
the intellectual men do not believe in any
essential dependence of the material
world on thought and volition. Theolo-
fians think it a pretty air-castle to talk of
the spiritual meaning of a ship or a cloud,
of a city or a contract, but they prefer to
come again to the solid ground of his-
torical 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 6i the world have never ceased to
explore the double meaning, or, shall I
say, the quadruple, or the centuple, or
much more manifold meaning, of every
sensuous fact: Orpheus, Empedocles,
Heraclitus, Plato, Plutarch, Dante, Swe-
denborg, and the masters of sculpture,
picture, and poetry. For vve are not pans
and barrows, nor even porters of the fire
and torch-bcarers, but children of the
fire, made of it, and only the same divinity
transmuted, and at two or three removes,
when we know least about it. And this
hidden truth, that the fountains whence
all this river of Time, and its creatures,
floweth, are intrinsically ideal and bCcaii-
tiful, 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 Iho
art in the present time.
The breadth of the problem is great,
for the poet is representative. He stands
among partial men for the complete man,
and apprises us not of his wealth, but of
the commonwealth. The young man re-
veres men of genius, because, to speak
truly, they are more himself than ha is.
They receive of the soul as he also re-
ceives, 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
labour, in games, we study to utter our
painful secret. Tlie man is only half
himself, the other half is his expression.
Notwithstanding this necessity to bo
published, adequate expression is rare.
I know not how it is that we need an in-
terpreter; but the great m.ajority of men
seem to be minors, who have not yet
come into possession of their own, or
mutes, who cannot report the conversa*
tion they have had with nature. There is
no man who does not anticipate a super-
sensual utility in the sun, and stars, earth
and water. These stand andy wait to
render him a peculiar service. But there
is some obstruction, or some excess of
phlegm in our constitution, which doea
not suffer them to yield the due effect.
Too feeble fall the impressions of nature
TtlR POET.
93
on us to make us artists, p^ery touch
Bhould thrill. Every man should be so
much an artist, that he could report in
conversation what had befallen him. Yet,
in our experience, the rays or appulses
have sufficient force to arrive at the
senses, but not enough to reach the quick,
and compel the reproduction of them-
selves in speech. The poet is the person
in whom these powers are in balance, the
man without impediment, who sees and
handles that which others dream of, tra-
verses, the whole scale of experience, and
is representative of man, in virtue of being
the largest power to receive and to impart.
For the Universe has three children,
born at one time, which reappear, under
different names, in every system of
thought whether they be called cause,
operation, and effect ; or more poetically,
Jove, Pluto, Neptune ; or theologically,
the Father, the Spirit, and the Son ; but
which we will call here, the Knower, the
Doer, and the Sayer. These stand res-
pectively for the love of truth, for the love
of good, and for the love of beauty. These
three are equal. Each is that which he
is essentially, so that he cannot be sur-
mounted or analysed, and each of these
three has the power of the others intent
in him, and his own patent.
The poet is the sayer, the namer, and
represents beauty. He is a sovereign,
and stands on the centre. For the world
IS not painted, or adorned, but is from the
beginning beautiful; and God has not
made some beautiful things, but Beauty
is the creator of the universe. Therefore
the poet is not any permissive potentate,
but is emperor in his own right. Criti-
cism is infested with a cant of materialism,
which assumes that manual skill and
activity is the first merit of all men, and
disparages such as say and do not, over-
looking the fact that some men, namely,
poets, are natural sayers, sent into the
world to the end of expression, and con-
founds 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 Agamem-
non’s victories are to Agamemnon. The
poet does not wait for the hero or the sage,
but, as they act and think primarily, so
he writes primarily what will and must be
spoken, reckoning the others, though
primaries also, yet, in respect to him,
secondaries and servants ; as sitters or
models in the studio of a painter, or as
assistants who bring building materials to
an architect*
For poetry was all written before timo
was, and whenever we are so finely organ-
ised that we can penetrate into that region
where the air is music, we hear those
primal warblings, and att'jmpt to write
them down, but we lose ever and anon a
word, or a verse, and substitute something
of our own, and thus mis-write the poem.
The men of more delicate ear write down
these cadences more faithfully, and these
transcripts, though imperfect, become the
songs of the nations. For nature is as
truly beautiful as it is good, or as it is
reasonable, and must as much appear, as
it must bo done, or be known. Words
and deeds are quite indifferent modes of
the divine energy. Words are also actions,
and actions are a kind of words.
The sign and credentials of the poet
are, that he announces that which no man
foretold. He is the true and only doctor ;
he knows and tells ; he is the only teller
of news, for he was present and privy to
the appearance which he describes, Ha
is a beholder of ideas, and an utterer of
the necessary and casual. 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, whosa
head appeared to be a music-box of deli-
cate tunes and rhythms, and whose skill
and command of language we could not
sufficiently praise. But when the question
arose, whether he was not only a lyrist,
but a poet, we were obliged to confess
that he is plainly a contemporary not an
eternal man. He does not stand out of
our low limitations, like a Chimborazo
under the line, running up from a torrid
base through all the climates of the globe,
with belts of the herbage of every latitude
on its high and mottled sides ; but this
genius is the landscape-garden of a
modern house, adorned with fountains
and statues, with well-bred men and
women standing and sitting in the walks
and terraces. We hear through all the
varied music, the ground-tone of conven-
tional life. Our poets arc men of talents
who sing, and not the children of music.
The argument is secondary, the finish of
the verses is primary.
For it is not metres, but a metre-making
argument, that makes a poem — a thought
so passionate and alive, that, like the spirit
of a plant or an animal, it has an archi-
tecture 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
ESSAYS.
94
order of genesis the thought is prior to the
form. The poet has a new thought ; he
has a whole new experience to unfold ;
he will tell us how it was with him, and
all men will ba the richer in hia fortune.
For the experience of each new age re-
quires a new confession, and the world
Beeins always waiting for its poet, I
remember, when I was young, how much
I was moved one morning by tidings that
genius had appeared in a youth who sat
near me at table. He had left his work,
and gone rambling none knew whither,
and had written hundreds of lines, but
could not tell whether that which was in
him was therein told ; he could tell no-
thing but that all was changed — man,
boast, heaven, earth, sea. How gladly we
listened ! how credulous ! Society seemed
to be compromised. We sat in the aurora
of a sunrise which was to put out all the
stars. Boston seemed to be at twice the
distance it had the night before, or was
much farther than that. Rome— what
was Rome ? Plutarch and Shakespeare
were in the yellow leaf, and Homer no
more should be heard of. It is much to
know that poetry has been written tliis
very day, under this very roof, by your
side. What 1 that wonderful spirit has
not expired I These stony moments are
fitill sparkling and animated ! I had
fancied that the oracles were all silent,
and nature had spent her fires, and be-
hold 1 all night, from every pore, these
fine auroras have been streaming. Every
one has some interest in the advent of the
poet, and no one knows how much it may
concern him. We know that the secret
of the world is profound, but who or what
shall be our interpreter, we know not. A
mountain ramble, a new style of face, a
new person, may put the key into our
hands. Of course, the value of genius to
us is in the veracity of its report. Talent
may frolic and juggle ; genius realises and
adds. Mankind, in good earnest, have
arrived so far in understanding themselves
and their work, that the foremost watch-
man on the peak announces his news. It
is the truest word ever spoken, and the
phrase will be the fittest, most musical,
and the unerring voice of the world for
that time.
All that we call sacred history attests
that the birth of a poet is the principal
event in chronology. Man, never so often
deceived, still watches for the arrival of a
brother who can hold him steady to a
truth, until ho has made it his own. With
what I begin to read a poem, which I
confide in as an inspiratiofll And novf
my chains are to be broken ; I shall
mount above these clouds and opaque
airs in whicli I live — opaque, though they
seem transparent —and from the heaven
of truth I shall see and comprehend my
relations. That will reconcile me to life,
and renovate nature, to see trifles 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 satan ! This
day shall be better than my birthday :
then I became an aminal: now I am
invited into the science of the real. Such
is the hope, but the fruition is postponed.
Oftencr it falls tliat this winged man, who
will carry me into the heaven, whirls me
into the mists, then leaps and frisks about
v/ith me as it were from cloud to cloud
still afflrniing that he is bound heaven-
ward ; and I, being myself a novice, am
slow in perceiving that he does not know
the way into the heavens, and is merely
bent that I should admire his skill to rise,
like a fowl or a flying-fish, a little way
from the ground or the water ; but the
all-piercing, all-feeding, and ocular air of
heaven, that man shall never inhabit. I
tumble down again soon into my old
nooks, and lead the life of exaggerations
as before, and have lost my faith in the
possibility of any guide who can lead me
thither where I would be.
But, leaving these victims of vanity, let
us, with new hope, observe how nature,
by worthier impulses, has insured the
poet’s fidelity to his office of announce-
ment and affirming, namely, by the be;uity
of things, which becomes anew and higher
beauty, when expressed. Nature offers all
her creatures to him as a picture-language.
Being used as a type, a second wonderful
value appears in the object, far better than
its old value, as the carpenter’s stretched
cord, if you hold your ear close enough,
is musical in the breeze. “ Things more
excellent than every image,” says Jambh*
chus, ” are expressed through images.’*
Things admit of being used as symbols,
because nature is a symbol, in the whole,
and in every part. Every line we can draw
in the sand has expression ; and there is
nobody without its spirit or genius. All
form is an effect of character; all con-
dition, of the quality of the life ; all har-
mony, of health; (and, for this reason, a
perception of beauty should be sympa-
thetic, or proper only to the good). Tho
beautiful rests on the foundations of the
THE POET.
93
Dftcessary. The soul makes the body, as
the wise Spenser teaches : —
•* So every spirit, ss it is more pure.
And hath in it the more ot heavenly light,
So it the fairer body doth procure
To habit in, and it more fairly dight,
With cheerful grace and amiable sight.
Tor, of the soul, the body form doth take,
For’soul is form, and doth the body make.*’
Here wo find ourselves, suddenly, not in
a critical speculation, but in a holy place,
and shoukf go very warily and reverently.
We stand before the secret of the world,
there where }3eing passes into Appearance,
and Unity into Variety.
The U'niverse is the externisation of the
Boul. 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 selfiexistcnt ; but these arc the
retinue of tliat Being we have. “The
mighty heaven,” said Proclus, “ exhibits,
in its transfigurations, clear images of the
splendour of intellectual perceptions ;
being moved in conjunction with the un-
apparent periods of intellectual natures.”
Therefore, science always goes abreast
with the just elevation of the man, keep-
ing step wdth religion and metaphysics ;
or, the state of science is an index of our
Belf-kiiowledge. Since everything in nature
answers to a moral power, if any pheno-
menon remains brute and dark, it is be-
cause the corresponding faculty in the
observer is not yet active.
No wonder, then, if these w'aters be so
deep, that we hover over them with a re-
ligious regard. The beauty of the fable
proves the importance of the sense; to
the poet, and to ail others ; or, if you
please, every man is so far a poet as to be
susceptible of these enchantments of
nature ; for all men have the thoughts
wdiercof the universe is the celebration. I
find that the fascination resides in the
symbol. Who loves nature ? Who docs
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 affec-
tion in their choice of life, and not in their
choice of words. The writer wonders
what the coachman or the hunter values
in riding, in horses, and dogs. It is not
superficial qualities. When you talk with
him, ho holds these at as slight a rate as
you. His worship is sympathetic ; he has
no definitions, but he is commanded in
nature, by the living power which he feels
to be there present. No imitation, or
playing of these things, would content
him ; he loves the earnest of the north
wind, of rain, of stone, and w'ood, and
iron. A beauty not explicable is dearer
than a beauty which we can see to the
end of. It is nature the symbol, nature cer-
tifying the supernatural, body overflowed
by lite, which he worships, wuth coarse
but sincere rites.
The inwardness and mystery of this at-
tachment drive men of every class to the
use of emblems. The school of poets,
and philosoi^hers, arc not more intoxicated
with their symbols, than the populace
with theirs. In our political parties, com-
pute the power of badges and emblems.
See the huge wooden ball lately rolled
from Baltimore to BunlLer Hill 1 In the
political processions, Lowell goes in a
loom, and Lynn in a shoe, and Salem in a
ship. Witness the cidcr-barrel, the log-
cabin, the hickory stick, the palmetto, and
all the cognisances of party. See the
power of national emblems. Seme stars,
lilies, leopards, a crescent, a lion, an
eagle, or other figure, which came into
credit God knows how, on an old rag of
bunting, blowing in the wind, on a fort,
at the ends of the earth, shall make the
blood tingle under the rudest or the most
conventional exterior. The people fancy
they hate poetry, and they are all poets
and mystics !
Beyond this universality of the sym-
bolic language, we are apprised of the
divineness of this superior use of things,
whereby the world is a temple, wlioso
walls are covered with emblems, pictures,
and commandments of the Deity, in this,
that there is no fact in nature which does
not carry the whole sense of nature ; and
the distinctions which we make in events,
and in affairs, of low and high, honest and
base, disappear when nature is used as a
symbol. Thought makes everything fit
for use. The vocabulary of an omniscient
man would embrace words and images
excluded from polite conversation. What
would bo base, or even obscene, to the
obscene, becomes illustrious, spoken in a
new connection of thought. The piety of
the Hebrew prophets purges their gross-
ness. The circumcision is an example of
the power of poetry to raise the low and
offensive. Small and mean things serve
as well as great symbols. The meaner
the type by which a law is expressed, the
more pungent it is, and the more lasting
in the memories of men: just as we
choose the smallest box, or case in which
0 ' ESSAYS.
any needful utensil can be carried. Bare
lists of words are found suggestive, to an
imaginative and excited mind; as it is
related of Lord Chatham, that he was ac-
customed to read in Bailey’s Dictionary,
when he was preparing to speak in Parlia-
ment. The poorest experience is rich
enough for all the purposes of expressing
thought. Why covet a knowledge of new
facts ? Day and night, house and garden,
a few books, a few actions, serve us as
well as would all trades and all spectacles.
We are far from having exhausted the
significance of the few symbols we use.
Wo can come to use them yet with a ter-
rible simplicity. It does not need that a
poem should be long. Every word was
once a poem. Every new relation is a
new word, Also, we use defects and de-
formities 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 reattaches things to
nature and the Whole— reattaching even !
artificial things, and violations of nature,
to nature, by a deeper insight — disposes
very easily of the most disagreeable facts.
Readers of poetry see the factory village
and the railway, and fancy that the poetry
of the landscape is broken up by these ;
for these works of art are not yet conse-
crated in their reading ; but the poet sees
them fall within the great Order not less
than the beehive, or the spider’s geo-
metrical web. Nature adopts them very
fast into her vital circles, and the gliding
train of cars she loves like her own.
Besides, in a centred mind, it signified
nothing hov/ many mechanical inventions
you exhibit. Though you add millions,
and never so surprising, the fact of me-
chanics has not gained a grain’s weight.
The spiritual fact remains unalterable, by
many or by few particulars ; as no moun-
tain is of any appreciable height to break
the curve of the sphere. A shrewd country
boy goes to tJhe 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 ftet, is to enhance the great and con-
Itant fact of Life, which can dwau-f any
and every circumstance, and to which the
belt of wampum, and the commerce of
America, are alike.
The world being thus put under the
mind for verb and noun, the poet is he
who can articulate it. For, though life is
great, and fascinates, and absorbs— and
though all men are intelligent of the sym •
bols through which it is named — yet they
cannot originally use them. We are
symbols, and inhabit symbols ; workmen,
work, and tools, words and things, birth
and death, all are emblems; but we sym-
pathise with the symbols, and, being in-
fatuated 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 their old use forgotten, and
puts eyes, and a tongue, into every dumb
and inanimate object. He perceives the
independence of the thought on the sym-
bol, the stability of the thought, the acci-
dency and fugacity of the symbol. As the
eyes of Lyncaeus were said to see through
I the earth, so the poet turns the world
' to glass, and shows us all things in their
right series and procession. For, through
that better perception, he stands one step
nearer to things, and secs the flowing or
metamorphosis ; perceives that thought is
multiform ; that within the form of every
creature is a force impelling it to ascend
into a higher form ; and, following with
his eyes the life, uses the forms which
express that life, and so his speech flows
with the flowing of nature. All the facts
of the animal economy — sex, nutriment,
gestation, birth, growth— are symbols of
the passage of the world into the soul of
man, to suffer there a change, and reappear
a new and higher fact. He uses forms
according to the life and not according to
the form. This is true science. The poet
alone knows astronomy, chemistry, vege-
tation, and animation, for he does not
stop at these facts, but employs them
as signs. He knows why the plain or
meadow of space was 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 th«
horses of thought.
By virtue of this science the poet is the
Namer, or Language-maker, naming things
sometimes after their appearance, some*
times after their essence, and giving to
every one its own name and not another’s,
thereby rejoicing the intellect, which de-
lights in detachment or boundary. Tho
THE POET,
97
poets made all the words, and therefore
language is thearchiT/es of history, and, if
W6 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 cur-
rency, because for the moment it sym-
bolised the world to the first speaker and
to the hearer. The etymologist finds the
deadest word to have been once a brilliant
picture. Language is fossil poetry. As
the limestone of the continent consists of
infinite masses of the shells of animalcules,
so language is made up of images, or
tropes, which now, in their secondary use,
have long ceased to remind us of their
poetic origin. But the poet names the
thing because he sees it, or comes one
step nearer to it than any other. This ex-
pression, 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 bap-
tise her, but baptises herself; and this
through the metamorphosis again. I re-
member that a certain poet described it
to me thus : —
Genius is the activity which repairs the
decays of things, w'hether wholly or partly
of a material and finite kind. Nature,
through all her kingdoms, insures herself.
Nobody cares for planting the poor fun-
gus : 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 sub-
ject to the accidents which destroyed its
parent two rods off. She makes a man ;
and having brought him to ripe age, she
will no longer run the risk of losing this
wonder at a blow, but she detaches from
him a new self, that the kind may be safe
from accidents to which the individual is
exposed. So when the soul of the poet
has come to ripeness of thought, she de-
taches 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), which carry them fast
and far, and infix them irrecoverably into
fbe hearts of men. These wings are the
beauty of the poet’s soul. The songs, thus
flying immortal from their mortal parent,
are pursued by clamorous flights of cen-
sures, which swarm in far greater num-
bers, and threaten to devour them ; but
these last are not winged. At the end ol
a very short leap they fall plump down,
and rot, having received from the souls
out of which they came no beautiful wings.
But the melodies of the poet ascend, and
leap, and pierce into the deeps of infinite
time.
So far the bard taught me, using his
freer speech. But nature has a higher
end, in the production of new individuals,
than security, namely, ascension, or, the
passage of the soul into higher forms. I
knew, in my younger days, the sculptor
who made the statue of the youth which
stands in the public garden. Pie was, as
I remember, unable to tell directly, what
made him happy, or unhappy, but by won-
derful indirections he could tell. He rose
one day, according to his habit, before the
dawn, and saw the morning break, grand
as the eternity out of which it came, and,
for many days after, he strove to express
this tranquillity, and, lo 1 his chisel had
fashioned out of marble the form of a
beautiful youth. Phosphorus, whose aspect
is such, that, it is said, all persons who
look on it become silent. The poet also
resigns himself to his mood, and that
thought which agitated him is expressed,
but alter idem, in a manner totally new,
The expression is organic, or, the new
type which things themselves take when
liberated. As, in the sun, objects paint
their images on the retina of the eye, so
they, sharing the aspiration of the whole
universe, tend to paint a far more delicate
copy of their essence in his mind. Like
the metamorphosis of things into higher
organic forms, is their change into melo*
dies. Over everything stands its demon,
or soul, and, as the form of the thing is re-
flected 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-cah-
tations, which sail like odours in the air,
and when any man goes by with an ear
sufficiently fine, he overhears them, and
endeavours to write down the notes, with-
out diluting or depraving tliein. And
herein is the legitimation of criticism,
in the mind’s faith, that the poems are
a corrupt veislort of soaiie text in nature,
with which they ought to be made to
tally. A rhyme in one of our soflnets
should not be less pleasing than the
ESSAYS.
58
iterated nodes cf a sea-shell, or the re-
sembling difference of a group of flowers.
The pairing of the birds is an idyll ; not
tedious as our idylls are ; a tempest is a
rough ode, without falsehood or rant: a
Bummer, with its harvest sown, reaped,
and stored, is an epic song, subordinating
how many admirably executed parts.
Why should not the symmetry and truth
that modulate these glide into our spirits,
and we participate the invention of
nature ?
This insight, which expresses itself by
what is called Imagination, is a very high
sort of seeing, which does not come by
study, but by the intellect being where
and what it sees, by sharing the path or
circuit of things through forms, and so
making them translucid to others. The
path of things is silent. Will they suffer
a speaker to go with them ? A spy they
will not suffer ; a lover, a poet, is the
transcendency of their own nature — him
they will suffer. The condition of true
naming, on the poet’s part, is his resign-
ing himself to the divine atira which
breathes through forms, and accompany-
ing that.
It is a secret which every intellectual ,
man quickly learns, that, beyond the
energy of his possessed and conscious in- j
tellect, he is capable of a new energy (as
of an intellect doubled on itself), by aban- i
donment to the nature of things ; that,
beside his privacy of power as an indi-
vidual man, there is a great public power,
on which he can draw, by unlocking, at
all risks, his human doors, and suffering
the ethereal tides to roll and circulate
through him : then he is caught up into
the life of the Universe, his speech is
thunder, his thought is law, and his
words are universally intelligible as the
plants and animals. The poet knows that
he speaks adequately, then, only when he
speaks somewhat wildly, or, with “ the
flower of the mind not with the intel-
lect, used as an organ, but with the intel-
lect released from all service, and suffered
to take its direction from its celestial life ;
or, as the ancients were wont to express
themselves, not with intellect alone, but
with the intellect inebriated by nectar.
As the traveller who has lost his way
throws his reins on his horse’s neck, and
trusts to the instinct of the animal to find
his road, so must we do with the divine
animal who carries us through this world.
For if in any manner we can stimulate
this iestinct, new passages are opened for
lu into nature^ the mind flows into and
through things hardest and aighOfit, 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 exhil-
aration. All men avail themselves of such
means as they can, to add this extraor-
dinary power to their normal powers ; and
to this end they prize conversation, music,
pictures, sculpture, dancing, theatres, trav-
elling, war, mobs, fires, gaming, politics,
or love, or science, or animal intoxication,
which are several coarser or finer quasU
mechanical substitutes for the true nectar,
which is the ravishment of the intellect by
coming nearer to the fact. These arc
auxiliaries to the centrifugal tendency of
a man, to his passage out into free space,
and they help him to escape the custody
of that body in wliich he is pent up, and
of that jail-yard of individual relations in
which he is enclosed. Hence a great
number of such as were professionally ex-
pressors of Beauty, as painters, poets,
musicians, and actors, have been more
than others wont to lead a life of pleasure
and indulgence ; all but the few who re-
ceived the true nectar ; and, as it was a
spurious mode of attaining freedom, as it
was an emancipation not into the heaven.s,
but into the freedom of baser places, they
were punished for that advantage they
won, by a dissipation and deterioration.
But never can any advantage be taken of
nature by a trick. The spirit of the world,
tlie great calm presence of the Creator,
comes not forth to the sorceries of opium
or of wine. The sublime vision comes to
the pure and simple soul in a clean and
chaste body. That is not an inspiration
which wo 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 des-
cent unto men, must drink water oat of a
wooden bowl. For poetry is not “ Devil’s
wine,” but Cod’s wine. It is with this as
it is with toys. We fill the hands and
nurseries of our children with all manner
of dolls, drums, and horses, withdrawing
their eyes from the plain face and sufficing
objects of nature, the sun, and moon, the
animals, the water, and stones, which
should be their toys. So the poet’s habit
of living should be set on a key so low,
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
THE
with water. That spirit which suffices
quiet hearts, which seems to come forth
to such from every dry knoll of sere grass,
from every pine stump, and half-imbedded
stone, on which the dull March sun shines,
comes forth to the poor and hungry, and
such as are of simple taste. If thou fill
thy brain with Boston and New York, with
fashion and covetousness, and wilt stimu-
late thy jaded senses with wine and
ii'rench coffee, thou shalt find no radiance
of wisdom in the lonely waste of the pine-
woods.
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 libera-
ting gods. Men have really got a new
sense, and found within their world an-
other world, or nest of worlds ; for, the
metamorphosis once seen, wc divine that
it does not stop. I will not now con-
Bidei how much this makes the charm of
algebra and the mathematics, which also
nave their tropes, but it is felt in every
definition ; as, when Aristotle defines space
to be an immovable vessel, in which things
are contained ; or, when Plato defines a
line to be allowing 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 arcliitect can build any
house well, who does not know something
of anatomy. When Socrates, in Char-
inideg, tells us that the soul is cured of
its maladies by certain incantations, and
that these incantations are beautiful rea-
sons, from which temperance is generated
in souls ; when Plato calls the world an
animal ; and Timmus affirms that the
plants also are animals ; or affirms a man
to be a heavenly tree, growing with its
root, which is his head, upward ; and, as
George Chapman, following him, writes —
“ So in our tree of man, whose nervie root
Sprin^^s in his top ; ”
when Orpheus speaks of hoariness as
* that white flower which marks extreme
old age ; ” when Proclus calls the universe
statue of the intellect ; when Chaucer,
ia his praise of “ Gentilesse,” compares
POET. 99
good blood in mean condition to Are,
which, though carried to the darkest
house betwixt this and the mount of
Caucasus, will yet hold its natural office,
and burn as bright as if twenty thousand
men did it behold ; when John saw, in the.
Apocalypse, the ruin of the world through
evil, and the stars fall from Iloaven, as
the fig-tree casteth her untimely fruit;
when .disop reports the whole catalogue
of common daily relations through the
masquerade of birds and beasts ; we take
the cheerful hint of the immortality of
our essence, and its versatile habit and
escapes, as when the gypsies say of them-
selves, “ It is in vain to hang them, they
cannot die.”
The poets arc thus liberating gods. The
ancient British bards had for the title of
their order, ” Those who are free through-
out the world.” They are free and they
make free. An imaginative book renders
us much more service at first, by stimu-
lating us through its tropes, than after-
ward, when we arrive at the precise sense
of the author. I think nothing is of any
value in books, excepting the transcen-
dental and extraordinary, If a man is in-
fiamed and carried away by his thought,
to that degree that he forgets the authors
and the public, and heeds only this one
dream, which holds him like an insanity,
let me read his pai)er, and you may have
all the arguments and histories and criti-
cism. All the value which attaches to
Pythagoras, Paracelsus, Cornelius, Agrippa,
Cardan, Kepler, Swedenborg, Schelling,
Oken, or any other who introduces ques-
tionable facts into his cosmogony, as
angels, devils, magic, astrology, palmistry,
mesmerism, and so on, is the certificate
we have of departure from routine, and
that here is a new witness. Tiiat also is
tlie best success in conversation, the
magic of liberty, which puts the world,
like a ball, in our hands. How cheap
even the liberty then seems ; how mean
to study, when an emotion communicates
to the intellect the power to sap and uj>-
heave nature ; how great the perspective !
nations, times, systems, enter and dis-
appear, like threads in tapestry of large
figure and many colours ; dream delivers
us to dream, and, while the drunkenness
lasts, we will sell our bed, our philosophy,
our religion, in our opulence.
There is good reason why we should
prize this liberation. The fate of the
poor shepherd, who, blinded and lost in
the snow-storm, perishes in a drift^ilhin
a few feet of his cottage door, is an
zoo
ESSAYS.
emblem oC the state of man, On the
brink of the waters of life and truth, we
ere miserably dying. The inaccessibleness
of every thought but that we are in, is
wonderful. What if you come near to it
— you are as remote, when you are nearest,
as when you are farthest. Every thought
is also a prison ; every Heaven is also a
prison. Therefore we love the poet, the
inventor, who in any form, whether in an
ode, or in an action, or in looks and be-
haviour, has yielded us a new thought.
He unlocks our chains, and admits us to
a new scciie.
This emancipation is dear to all men,
and the power to impart it, as it must
come from greater depth and scope of
thought, is a measure of intellect. There-
fore all books of the imagination endure,
all which ascend to that truth, that the
writer sees nature beneath him, and uses
it as his exponent. Every verse or sen-
tence, possessing this virtue, will take
care of its own immortality. The religions
of the world are the ejaculations of a few
imaginative men.
But the quality of the imagination is to
flow, and not to freeze. The poet did not
stop at the colour, or the form, but read
their meaning, neither may he rest in this
meaning, but he makes tlie same objects
exponents of his new thought. Here is
the difference betwixt the poet and the
mystic, that the last nails a symbol to one
sense, which was a true sense for a
moment, but soon becomes old and false.
For all symbols are fiuxional ; all language
is vehicular and transitive, and is good,
as ferries and horses are, for conveyance,
not as farms and houses are, for home-
stead. Mysticism consists in the mistake
of an accidental and individual symbol
for an universal one. The morning red-
ness happens to be the favourite meteor
to the eyes of Jacob Behmen, and comes
to stand to him for truth and faith ; and
he believes should stand for the same
realities to every reader. But tlie first
reader prefers as naturally the symbol of
a mother and child, or a gardener and his
bulb, or a jeweller polishing a gem.
Either of these, or of a myriad more, are
equally good to the person to whom they
are significant. Only they must be held
lightly, and be very willingly translated
into the equivalent terms which others
use. And the mystic must be steadily
told, All that you say is just as true with-
out the tedious use of that symbol as with
it. hfX us have a little algebra, instead of
this true rhetoric^-universal signs, instead
of these village symbols— -and we shall
both be gainers. The history of hier-
archies seems to show, that ail religiouo
error cc.nsisted in making the symbol too
stark and solid, and, at last, nothing txit
an excess of the organ of language,
Swedenborg, of all men in the recent
ages, stands eminently for the translator
of nature into thought. I do not know
the man in history to whom things stood
so uniformly for words. Before him the
metamorphosis continually plays. Every-
thing on which his eye rests obeys the im-
pulses of moral nature. The figs become
grapes whilst he eats them. When some
of his angels affirmed a truth, the laurel
twig which they held blossomed in their
hands. The noise which, at a distance,
appeared like gnashing and thumping, on
coming nearer was found to be the voice
of disputants. The men in one of his
visions, seen in heavenly light, appeared
like dragons, and seemed in darkness:
but, to each other, they appeared as men,
and when the light from Heaven shomi
into their cabin, they complained of th^
darkness, and were compelled to shut the
window that they might see.
There was this perception in him, v/hich
makes the poet or seer an object of awa
and terror, namely, that the same man,
or society of men, may wear one aspect
to themselves and their companions, and
a different aspect to higher intelligences.
Certain priests, whom he describes as
conversing very learnedly together, ap-
peared to the children, who were at sorno
distance, like dtiad horses ; and many the
like misappearances. And instantly the
mind enquires whether these fishes under
the bridge, yonder oxen in the pasture,
those dogs in the yard, are immutably
fishes, oxen, and dogs, or only so appear
to me, and perchance to themselves ap-
pear upright men ; and whether I appear
as a man to all eyes. The Bramins and
Pythagoras propounded the same ques-
tion, and if any poet has witnessed the
transformation, he doubtless found it ia
harmony with various experiences. Wo
have all seen changejs as considerable in
wheat and caterpillars. He is the poot^
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 des-
cribe, We do not, with sufficient plain-
ness, or sufficient profoundness, address
ourselves to life, nor dare we chant our
own times and social circumstance. If
we filled the day with bravery, wo should
XOf
THE POET.
not shrink from celebrating it. Time and
nature yield us many gifts, but not yet the
timely man, the new religion, the recon-
ciler, whom all things await. Dante’s
raise is, that he dared to write his auto-
iography in colossal cipher, or into uni-
versality. We have yet had no genius in
America, with tyrannous eye, which knew
the value of our incomparable materials,
and saw, in the barbarism and materialism
of the times, another carnival of the same
gods whose picture he so much admires in
Homer ; then in the middle age ; then in
Calvinism. Banks and tariffs, the news-
paper and caucus, Methodism and Uni-
tarianism, 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-
phos, and are swiftly passing away.
Our log-rolling, our stumps and their
politics, our fisheries, our Negroes, and
Indians, our boats, and our repudiations,
the wrath of rogues, and the pusillanimity
of honest men, the Northern trade, the
Southern planting, the Western clearing,
Oregon and Texas, are yet unsung. Yet
America is a poem in our eyes ; its ample
geography dazzles the imagination, and it
will not wait long for metres. If I have
Hot found that excellent combination of
gifts in my countrymen which I seek,
neither could I aid myself to fix the idea
of the poet by reading now and then in
Chalmers’s collection of five centuries of
l^higlish 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 difiiculties even
with Milton and Homer, Milton is too
literary, and Homer too literal and his-
torical.
But I am not wise enough for a national
criticism, and must use the old largeness
a little longer, to discharge my errand
from the muse to the poet concerning his
art.
Art is the path of the creator to his work.
The paths, or methods, are ideal and
etern^, though few men ever see them,
not the artist himself for years, or ror a
lifetime, unless he come into the condi-
tions. The painter, the sculptor, the com-
poser, the epic rhapsodist, the orator, all
partake one desire, namely, to express
themselves symmetrically and abundantly,
not dwarfishly and fragmentarily. They
found or put themselves in certain condi-
tions, as, the painter and sculptor before
some impressive human figures ; the
orator, into the assembly of the people ;
and tbe others, in such scenes as e^ch
has found exciting to his intellect ; and
each presently feels the new desire. Ho
hears a voice, he sees a beckoning. Then
he is apprised, with wonder, what herds
of demons hem him in. He can no more
rest ; he says, with the old painter, “ By
God, it is in me, and must come 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 nothing else but such things.
In our way of talking, we say, “ That is
yours, this is mine ; ” but the poet knows
well that it is not his ; that it is as strange
and beautiful to him as to you ; he would
fain hear the like eloquence at length,
Once having tasted this immoral 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 I
and by what accident it is that these are
(Exposed, when so many secrets sleep in
nature! Hence the necessity of speech
and song ; hence these throbs and heart-
beatings in the orator, at the door of the
assembly, to the end, namely, that thought
may be ejaculated as Logos, or Word.
Doubt not, O poet, but persist. Say,
” It is in me, and shall out.” Stand there,
baulked and dumb, stuttering and stammer-
ing, hissed and hooted, stand and strive,
until, at last, rago draw out of thee that
dream-power wliich every night shows
thee is thine own ; a power transcending
all limit and privacy, and by virtue of
which a man is the conductor of the whole
river of electricity. Nothing walks, or
creeps, or grows, or exists, which must
not in turn arise and walk before him as
exponent of his meaning. Comes he to
that power, his genius is no longer ex-
haustible. 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 v orld. This is like the stock of
air, for our respiration, or for the combus-
tion of our fireplace, not a measure of
gallons, but the entire atmosphere if
wanted. And therefore the rich poets,
as Homer, Chaucer, Shakespeare, 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 ^n ifiage of
©very created thing,
loa
ESSAYS.
O poet ! a new nobility is conferred in
groves and pastures, and not in castles,
or by the sword-blade, any longer. The
conditions are hard, but equal. Thou
Shalt leave the world, and know the muse
only. Thou shalt not know any longer
the times, customs, graces, politics, or
opinions of men, but take all from the
muse. For the time of towns is tolled
from the world by funereal chimes, but in
nature the universal hours are counted by
succeeding tribes of animals and plants,
and by growth of joy on joy. God wills
also that thou abdicate a duplex and
manifold life, and thou be content that
others speak for thee. Others shall be
thy gentlemen, and shall represent all
courtesy and worldly life for thee ; others
shall do the great and resounding actions
also. Thou shalt lie close hid with
nature, and canst not be afforded to the
Capitol or the Exchange. The world
is full of renunciations and apprentice-
ships, 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 for thy bath and navi-
gation, without tax and without envy ;
the woods and the rivers thou shalt own ;
and thou shalt possess that wherein others
are only tenants and boarders. Thou true
land-lord ! sea-lord ! air-lord ! Wherever
snow falls, or water flows, or birds fly,
wherever day and night meet in twilight,
wherever the blue heaven is hung by
clouds, or sown with stars, wherever are
forms with transparent boundaries, wher-
ever are outlets into celestial space, wher-
ever is danger, and awe, and love, there is
Kcauly, plenteous as rain, shed for thee,
and though thou should st walk the world
over, thou shalt not be able to find a con*
dition inopportune or ignoble.
EXPERIENCE.
The lords of life, the lords of life—
1 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 sec, some to be guessed,
They marched from cast 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-niorrow they will wear another face.
The founder thou I these are thy racer’
Where do we find ourselves ? In a series
of which we do not know the extremes,
and believe that it has none. We wake
and find ourselves on a stair ; there are
stairs below us which we seem to have
ascended ; there are stairs above us, many
a one, vyjiich go upward and out of sight.
But the Genius which, according to the
I old belief, stands at the door by which we
enter, and gives us the Icthe to drink, that
wc may tell no tales, mixed the cup too
strongly, and we cannot shake off tho
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 spar-
ing of her fire and so liberal of her e^irth,
that it appears to us that we lack the
affirmative principle, and though we have
health and reason, yet we have no super-
fluity of spirit for new creation ? Wq
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 tho
factories above them have exhausted tho
water. We too fancy that the upper
people must have raised their dams.
» If any us knew what v/e were doing,
EXPERIENCE.
103
dr where we are going, then when we think
we best know I 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
accomplished, and much was begun in us.
All our days arc so uncomfortable while
they pass, that 'tis wonderful where or
when we ever got anything of this which
wo Cc'ill wisdom, poetry, virtue. We never
got it on any dated calendar day. Some
heavenly days must have been inter-
calated somewhere, like those at Hermes
won with dice of the Moon, that Osiris
might be born. It is said, all martyrdoms
looked mean when they wore suffered.
Mvery siiip is a romantic object, except
that wc sail in. Embark, and the romance
quits our vessel, and hangs on every other
sail in the hori/:on. Our life looks trivial
and we shun to record it. Men seem
to have learned of the horizon the art
cf perpetual retreating and reference.
' Yondci uplands arc rich pasturage, and
my neighbour has fertile meadow, but my
Aidd,” says the querulous farmer, “ only
liolds the world together.” I quote
another man’s saying; unluckily, that
Ollier withdraws himself in the same way, i
and quotes me. 'Tis the trick of nature j
thus to degrade to-day ; a good deal of
buzz, and somcwliero a result slipped
magicrilly in. ICvery roof is agreeable to
the eye, until it is lifted ; then we find
tragedy and moaning women, and hard-
eyed husbands, and deluges of lethe, and
the men ask, “ What’s the news?” as if
the old were so bad. How many indi-
viduals can wo 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 Tira-
boschi, Warton, or Schlcgel — is a sum of
very few itleas, and of very few original j
tales — all the rest being variation of these.
So, in this great society wide lying around
us, a critical analysis would find very few
spontaneous actions. It is almost all
custom and gross sense. There are even
few opinions, and these seem organic in
the speakers, and do not disturb the
universal necessity.
What opium is instilled into all disaster !
It shows formidable as we approach it,
but there is at last no rough rasping fric-
tion, but the most slippery sliding sur-
faces : we fall soft cn a thought ; Ai^c Dea
13
*‘Over men’s heads walking aloft,
With tender feet trrading so soft.”
People grieve and bemoan themselves,
but it is not half so bad with them as they
say. There are moods in which wo court
suffering, in the hope that here, at least
we shall find reality, sharp peaks and
edges of truth. But it turns out to be
scene-painting and counterfeit. The only
thing grief has taught me, is to know how
shallow it is. That, like all the rest,
plays about the surface, and never
introduces me into the reality, for contact
with which, we would even j-^ay the costly
price of sons and lovers. Was it
Roscovich who found out that bodies
never come into contact ? Well, .souls
never touch their objects. An innavigable
sea washes with silent waves between us
and the things we aim at anrl 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 in-
formed of the bankruptcy of my principal
debtors, the loss of my property would bo
a great inconvenience to me, perhaps, for
many years; but it would leave me as it
found me — neither better nor worse. So
is it with this calamity: it does not touch
me ; something which I fancied was a part
of me, which could not be torn away with-
out tearing me, nor enlarged without
enriching me, falls off from me and leaves
no scar. It was caducous. I grieve that
grief can teach me notliing, nor carry me
one step into real nature. The Indian
who was laid under a curse, that the w'ind
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. Wo
look to that with a grim satisfaction, say-
ing, there at least is reality that will not
dodge ns.
I tako this evanescence and lubricity of
all objecis, \vhich lets them slip through
our fingers then when we clutch hardest,
to be the most unhandsome part of our
condition. Nature does not like to be ob-
served, and likes that we should be her
fools and playmates. We may have the
sphere for our cricket-ball, but not a heriy
for our philosophy. Direct strokes she
never gave us power to make; all our
blows glance, all our hits are accidents.
Our relations to each other are oblique
and casual. •
Dream delivers us to dream, and there
n
ESSAYS.
104
is no end to iltusion. Life is a train of
moods like a string of beads, and, as we
pass through them, they prove to be many-
coloured lenses which paint the world
their own hue, and each shows only what
lies in its focus. From the mountain you
Bee the mountain. We animate what we
can, and we see only what we animate.
Nature and books belong to the eyes that
see them. It depends on the mood of the
man, whether he shall see the sunset or
the fine poem. There are always sunsets,
and there is always genius ; but only a
few hours so serene that we can relish
nature or criticism. The more or less de-
pends on structure or temperament. Tem-
erament is the iron wire on which the
eads are strung. Of what use is fortune
or talent to a cold and defective nature?
Who cares what sensibility or discrimina-
tion a man has at some time shown, if he
falls asleep in his chair ? or if he laugh
and giggle ? or if he apologise ? or is in-
fected with egotism ? or thinks of his dol-
lar ? or cannot pass by food ? or has gotten
a child in his boyhood ? Of what use is
genius, if the organ is too convex or too
concave, and cannot find a focal distance
within the actual horizon of human life ?
Of what use, if the brain is too cold or too
hot, and the man does not care enough
for results, to stimulate him to experiment,
and hold him up in it ; or if the w^eb is
too finely woven, too irritable by pleasure
and pain, so that life stagnates from too
much reception, without due outlet ? Of
what use to make heroic vows of amend-
ment, if the same old law-breaker is to
keep them ? What cheer can the religious
(Sentiment yield, when that is suspected to
be secretly dependent on the seasons of
the year, and the state of the blood ? I
knew a witty physician who found the
creed in the biliary duct, and used to
affirm that if there was disease in the liver,
the man became a Calvinist, and in that
organ was sound, he became a Unitarian.
Ver>^ mortifying is the reluctant experience
that some unfriendly excess or imbecility
neutralises the promise of genius. We
see young men who owe us a new world,
BO readily and lavishly they promise, but
they never acquit the debt ; they die young ]
find dodge the account — or if they live,
they lose themselves in the crowd.
Temperament also enters fully into the
lystem of illusions, and shuts us in a pri-
son of glass which we cannot see. There
is an optical illusion about every person
we iffeet. In truth, they are all creatures
of given temperamenti which will appear
in a given character, who^e boundariei
they will never pass ; but we look at thenit
they seem alive, and we presume there is
impulse in them. In the moment it seems
impulse ; in the year, in the lifetime, it
turns out to be a certain uniform tune
which the revolving barrel of the music-
box must play. Men resist the conclusion
in the morning, but adopt it as the even-
ing wears on, that temper prevails over
everything of time, place, and condition,
and is inconsumable in the flames of reli-
gion. Some modifications the moral sen-
timent avails to impose, but the individual
texture holds its dominion, if not to bias
the moral judgments, yet to fix the mea-
sure of activity and of enjoyment.
I thus express the law as it is read from
the platform of ordinary life, but must
not leave it without noticing the capital
exception. For temperament is a power
which no man willingly hears anyone
praise but himself. On the platform of
physics, we cannot resist the contracting
influences of so-called science. Tem-
perament puts all divinity to rout. I know
the mental proclivity of physicians. I
hear the chuckle of the phrenologists.
Theoretic kidnappers and slave-drivers,
they esteem each man the victim of an-
other, who winds him round his finger by
knowing the law of his being, and by such
cheap sign-boards as the colour of his
beard, or the slope of his occiput, reads
the inventory of his fortunes and cha-
racter. The grossest ignorance does not
disgust like this impudent knowingness.
The physicians say, they are not materi-
alists ; but they are : vSpirit is matter re-
duced to an extreme thinness : O so thin I
But the definition of spiritual should be,
that which is its own evidence. What
notions do they attach to love ? what to
religion? One would not willingly pro-
nounce these words in their hearing, and
give them the occasion to profane them;
I saw a gracious gentleman who adapts
his conversation to the form of the head
of the man he talks with ! I had fancied
that the value of life lay in its inscrutable
possibilities ; in the fact that I never
know, in addressing myself to a new indi-
vidual, what may befall me. I carry the
keys of my castle in my hand, ready to
throw them at the feet of my lord, when-
ever and in what disguise soever he shall
appear. I know he is in the neighbour-
hood 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
EXPERIENCE,
that, the doctors shall buy me for a cent.
•• But, sir, medical history ; the report to
the Institute ; the proven facts ! ’* I dis-
trust the facts and the inferences. Tem-
perament is the veto or limitation-power
m the constitution, very justly applied to
restrain an opposite excess in the con-
Btitiition, but absurdly offered as a bar to
original equity. When virtue is in pre-
sence, all subordinate powers sleep. On
its own level, or in view of nature, tem-
perament 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 tJie chain of physical necessity.
Given such an embryo, such a history
must follow. On this platform, one lives
in a sly of sensualism, and would soon
come to suicide. But it is impossible
that the creative power should exclude
itself. Into every intelligence there is a
door which is never closed, through
which the creator passes. The intellect,
seeker of absolute truth, or the heart,
lover of absolute good, intervenes for our
succour, and at one whisper of these high
powers, we awake from ineffectual strug-
gles with this nightmare. We hurl it into
its own hell, and cannot again contract
ourselves to so base a state.
The secret of the illusoriness is in the
necessity of a succession of moods or
objects. Gladly we would anchor, but
the anchorage is quicksand. This onward
trick of nature is too strong for us : Pero
si muove. When, at night, I look at the
moon and stars, I seem stationary, and
they to hurry. Our love of the real
draws us to permanence, but health of
body consists in circulation, and sanity of
mind in variety or facility of association.
We need change of objects. Dedication
to one thought is quickly odious. We
house with the insane, and must humour
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 Shakespeare ; then in
Plutarch; then in Plotinus; at one time
In Bacon ; afterwards in Goethe ; even in i
Bettine ; but now I turn the pages of
either of them languidly, whilst I still
cherish their genius. So with pictures;
each will bear an emphasis of attention
once, which it cannot retain, though we
fain would continue to be pleased in that
manner. How strongly I have felt of
pictures, that when you have seen one
well, you must take your leave of it ; you
iball never see it again. I have had good
105
lessons from pictures, which I have since
seen without emotion or remark. A de-
duction must be made from the opinion,
which even the 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
trusted as the lasting relation between
that intellect and that thing. The child
asks, “ Mamma, why don't I like the
story as well as when you told it me yes
terday?” Alas, child, it is even so with
the oldest cherubim of knowledge. But
will it answer thy question to say. Because
thou wert born to a whole, and this story
is a particular ? The reason of the pain
this discovery causes us (and we make it
late in respect to works of arts and intel-
lect), is the plant of tragedy which mur-
murs from it in regard to persons, to
friendship and love.
That immobility and absence of elas-
ticity which we find in the arts, we find
with more pain in the artist. There is no
power of expansion in men. Our friends
early appear to us as representatives of
certain ideas, which they never pass or
exceed. They stand on the briiff.k 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 colours. There is no adaptation
or universal applicability in men, but each
has his special talent, and the mastery of
successful men consists in adroitly keep-
ing 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 superfluous sometimes. But
is not this pitiful ? Life is not worth the
taking, to do tricks in.
Of course, it needs the whole society,
to give the symmetry we seek. The party-
coloured wheel must revolve very fast to
appear white. Something is learned too
by conversing with so much folly and
defect. In fine, whoever loses, we are
always of the gaining party. Divinity is
behind our failures and follies also. The
plays of children are nonsense, but very
educative nonsense. So it is with the
largest and solemnest things, with com-
merce, government, church, marriage,
and so with the history of every %ian’a
bread, and the ways by which he (8 to
ESSAYS.
io6
come by it. I^ike a bird which alights
nowhere, but hops perpetually from bough
to bough, is the Power which abides in no
man and in no woman, but for a moment
speaks from this one, and for another
moment from that one.
But what help from these fineries or
pedantries ? What help from thought ?
Life is not dialectics. We, I think, in
these times, have had lessons enough of
the futility of criticism. Our young people
have thought and written much on labour
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 ac-
tivity. 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 rnke or pitch a
ton of hay ? it would not rub down a horse ;
and the men and maidens if left pale and
hungry. A political orator wittily com-
pared our party promises to \Vestern
roads, which opened stately enough, with
planted trees on either side, to tempt the
traveller, but soon became narrower and
narrower and ended in a squirrel-track,
and ran up a tree. So does culture with
us ; it ends in headache. Unspeakably
sad and barren does life look to those,
who a few months ago were dazzled with ,
the splendour of the promise of the times.
“There is no longer any right course of
action, nor any self-devotion left among
the Iranis.’’ Objections and criticisms we
have had our fill of. There are objections
to every course of life and action, and the
practical wisdom infers an indifferency,
from the omnipresence of objection. The
whole frame of things preaches indif-
ferency. Do not craze yourself with think-
ing, but go about your business anywhere.
Life is not intellectual or critical, but
sturdy. Its chief good is for well-mixed
people who can enjoy what they find,
without question, Nature hates peeping,
and other mothers speak her very sense
when they say, “ Children, eat your
victuals, and say no more of it.” To fill
the hour — that is happiness ; to fill the
hour, and leave no crevice for a repent-
ance or an approval. We live amid sur-
faces, and the true art of life is to skate
well on them. Under the oldest mouldiest
convo itions, a man of native force pros-
pers just afi well as in the newest world,
and that by skill of handling and treatmenti
He can take hold anywhere. Life itself
is a mixture of power and form, and will
not bear the least excess of either. To
finish the moment, to find the journey’s
end in every step of the road, to live the
greatest number of good hours, is wis^^
dom. It is not the part of men, but of
fanatics, or of mathematicians, if you will,
to say, that, the shortness of life con-
sidered, it is not worth caring whether for
so short a duration wa were sprawling
in want, or sitting high. Since our offico
is worth moments, let us husband them.
Fiveminutesof to-day are Vvorth as much to
me as five minutes in the next millennium.
Let us be poised, and wise, and our 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 arc too soft
and tremulous for successful labour. It
is a tempest of fancies, and the only ballast
I know is a respect for the present hour.
Without any shadow of doubt, amidst this
vertigo of shows and politics, I settle my-
self ever the firmer in the creed, that wo
should not postpone and refer and wish,
but do broad j ustice where we are, by whom-
soever we deal with, accepting our actual
companions and circumstances, however
humble or odious, as the mystic officials
to whom the universe has delegated its
whole pleasure for us. If these are mean
i and malignant, their contentment, which
is the last victory of justice, is a more
satisfying echo to the heart than the voice
of poets and the casual sympathy of ad-
mirable persons. I think that, however a
thouglitful man may suffer from the de-
fects and absurdities of his company, ha
cannot without affectation deny to any set
of men and women a sensibility to extra-
ordinary merit. The coarse and frivolous
have an instinct of superiority, if they
have not a sympathy, and honour in their
blind capricious way with sincere homage.
The fine young people despise life, but
in me, and in such as with mo are free
from dyspepsia, and to whom a day is a
sound and solid good, it is a great excess
of politeness to look scornful and to cry
for company. I am grown by sympathy a
little e.ager and sentimental, but let mo
alone, and I should relish every hour, and
what it brought me, the potluck of the day»
as heartily as the oldest gossip in the bar-
room. I am thankful for small mercies.
I compared notes with one of my friends
who expects everything of the universe,
and is disappointed when anything is less
EXPERIENCE,
ID7
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 clangour and jangle
of contrary tendencies. I find my ac-
count in sots and bores also. They give
a reality to the circumjacent picture,
which such a vanishing metcorous appear-
ance can ill spare. In the morning I
awake, and find the old world, wife, babes,
and mother, Concord and Boston, the
dear old spiritual world, and even the dear
old devil not far off. If we will take the
good we find, asking no questions, we shall
have heaping measures. The great gifts
are not by analysis. Everything good is
on the highway. The middle region of
cur being is the temperate zone. We
may climb into the thin and cold realm of
pure geometry and lifeless science, or sink
into that of sensation. Between these
extremes is the equator of life, of thought,
of spirit, of poetry — a narrow belt. More-
over, in jiopular experience, everything
good is on the highway. A collector peeps
into all the picture-shops of Europe, for
a landscape of Poussin, a crayon sketch
of Salvator; but the Transfiguration, the
Last Judgment, and the Communion of
St. Jerome, and what are as transcendent
as these, are on the walls of the Vatican,
the Uffizi, or the Louvre, where every
footman may see them ; to say nothing of
nature’s pictures in every street, of sun-
sets and sunrises every day, and the
sculpture of the human body never ab-
sent. A collector recently bought at pub-
lic auction, in London, for one hundred
and fifty-seven guineas, an autograph of
Shakespeare : but for nothing a school-
boy can read Hamlet, and can detect
secrets of high.est concernment yet un-
published therein. I think I will never
never read any but the commonest books
■ — the Bible, Homer, Dante, Shakespeare,
tnd Milton. Then we are impatient of so
public a life and planet, and run hither
^nd thither for nooks and secrets. The
imagination delights in the woodcraft of
Indians, trappers, and bee-hunters. We
fancy that we are strangers, and not so
intimately domesticated in the planet as
the wild man, and the wild beast and bird.
But the exclusion reaches them also ;
reaches the climbing, flying, gliding, fea-
thered, and four-footed man. I ox and
woodchuck, hawk and snipe, and bittern,
when nearly seen, have no more root in
the deep world than man, and are just
Btich superficial tenants of the globe.
Then the new molecular philosophy shows
astronomical interspaoes 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
favour. 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 punctu-
ally keep the commandments. If we will
be strong with her strength, wo must not
harbour such disconsolate consciences,
borrowed too from the consciences of
other nations. We must setup the strong
present tense against all the rumours of
wrath, past or to com€\ So many thingg
are unsettled which it is of the first
importance to settle — and, pending their
settlement we will do as we do.
Whilst the debate goes forward on the
equity of commerce, and will not be
closed for a century or two. New and Old
England may keep shop. Law of copy-
riglit and international copyright is to be
discussed, and, in the interim, we will
sell our books for the most we can. Ex-
pediency of literature, reason of literature,
lawfulness of writing down a thought is
questioned ; much is to say on both sides,
and, while the fight waxes hot, thou,
dearest scholar, stick to thy foolish task,
add a line every hour, and between whiles
add a line. Right to hold land, right of
property is disputed, and the conventions
convene, and before the vote is taken, dig
away in your garden, and spend your
earnings as a waif or godsend to all
serene and beautiful purposes. Life
itself is a bubble and a scepticism, 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
scepticism : there are enough of them :
stay there in thy closet, and toil, until the
rest are agreed what to do about it. Thy
sickness, they say, and thy puny habit,
require that thou do this, or avoid that,
but know that thy life is a flitting state,
a tent for a night, and do thou, sick or
well, finish that stint. Thou art sick, but
shalt not be worse, and the universe,
which holds thee dear, shall be the better.
Human life is made up of the two ele-
ments, power and form, and the propor-
tion must be invariably kept, if we would
have it sweet and sound. Each ol the^
elements in excess makes a miscniel m
ESSAYS.
loS
hurtful as its defect. Everything runs to
excess : every good quality is noxious, if
unmixed, and, to carry the danger to the
head of ruin, nature causes each man’s
peculiarity to superabound. Here, among
the farms, we adduce the scholars as ex-
amples of this treachery. They are
nature’s victims of expression. You who
see the artist, the orator, the poet, too
near, and find their life no more excellent
than that of mechanics or farmers, and
themselves victims of partiality, very hol-
low and haggard, and pronounce them
failures — not heroes, but quacks— con-
clude very reasonably, that these arts are
not for man, but are disease. Yet nature
will not bear you out. Irresistible nature
made men such, and makes legions more
of such, every day. You love the boy
reading in a book, gazing at a drawing, or
a cast ; yet what are these millions who
read and behold, but 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 ho began
to be an artist, he perceives 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 of wisdom is made a fool,
How easily, if fate would suffer it, we
might keep for ever these beautiful limits,
and adjust ourselves, once for all, to the
perfect calculation of tho kingdom of
known cause and effect. In tho street,
and in tho newspapers, life appears so
plain a business, that manly resolution
and adherence to the multiplication-table
through all weathers, will insure success.
But ah ! presently comes a day, or is it
only a half-hour, with its angel-whis-
pering — which discomforts the conclusions
of nations and of years ! To-morrow
again, everything looks real and angular,
the habitual standards are reinstated,
common sense is as rare as genius— is the
basis of genius, and experience is hands
and feet to every enterprise — and yet, he
who should do his business on tins under-
standing, would be quickly bankrupt.
Power keeps quite another road than the
turnpikes of choice and will, namely, the
subterranean and invisible tunnels and
channels of life. It is ridiculous that we
are diplomatists, and doctors, and con-
siderate people ; there are no dupes like
these. Life is a series of surprises, and
would A:ot be worth taking or keeping, if
it were aQt« God deUghts to isolate us
every day, and hide from us the past and
the future. We would look about us, but
with grand politeness he draws down
before us an impenetrable screen of
purest sky, and another behind us of
purest sky. “ You will not remember,”
he seems to say,“ and you will not expect. ’
All good conversation, manners, and
action, com.e from a spontaneity which for-
gets 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 tho chemical and ethereal
agents are undulatory and alternate ; and
the mind goes antagonising on, and never
prospers but by fits. We thrive by
casualties. Our chief experiences have
been casual. The most attractive class
of people are those who are powerful ob-
liquely, and not by the direct stroke : men
of genius, but not yet accredited : one gets
the cheer of their light without paying too
great a tax. Theirs is the beauty of the
bird, or the morning light, and not of art.
In the thought of genius there is always a
surprise ; and the moral sentiment is well
called “the newness,” for it is never
other; as new to the oldest intelligence
as to the young child — “ the kingdom that
cometh without observation.” In like
manner, for practical success, there must
not be too much design. A man will not
be observed in doing that which he can do
I best. There is a certain magic about his
I properest action, which stupefies your
' powers of observation, co 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 im-
possibility, until he is born; everything
impossible, until we see a success. The
ardours of piety agree at last with the
coldest scepticism — that nothing is of us or
our works — that all is of God. Nature
will not spare us the smallest leaf of laurel.
All writing comes by the grace of God,
and all doing and having. I would gladly
be moral, and keep due metes and bounds,
which I dearly love, and allow the most to
the will of man, but I have set my heart
on honesty in this chapter, and I can sea
nothing at last, in success or failure, than
more o* less of vital force supplied from
the Eternal. The results of life are un-
calculated and uncalculablo. The yeara
teach much which the days never know.
The persons who compose our company,
converse, and come and go, and design
and execute many things, and somewhat
comes of it aU| but an unlookod'for result*
EXPERIENCE
Tile individual is always mistaken. He
designed many things, and drew in other
persons as coadjutors, quarrelled with
some or all, blundered much, and some-
thing is done \ all are a little advanced,
but the individual is always mistaken.
It turns out somewhat new, and very un-
like what he promised himself#
The ancients, struck with this irre-
ducibleness of the elements of human
life to calculation, exalted Chance into a
divinity, but that is to stay too long at the
spark — which glitters truly at one point —
but the universe is warm with the latency
of the same fire. The miracle of life
which will not be expounded, but will
remain a miracle, introduces a new ele-
ment. In the growth of the embryo, Sir
Everard Home, I think, noticed that the
evolution was not from one central point,
but co-active from three or more points, i
Life has no memory. That wliich pro-
ceeds in succession might be remem-
bered, but that which is co-existent, or
ejaculated from a deeper cause, as yet far
from being conscious, knows not its own
tendency. So is it with us, now sceptical,
or without unity, because immersed in
forms and effects all seeming to be of
equal yet hostile value, and now religious,
whilst in the reception of spiritual law.
Beat with these distractions, with this
coetaneous growth of the parts ; they will
one day be members, and obey one will.
On that one will, on that secret cause,
they nail our attention and hope. Life is |
hereby melted into an expectation or a I
religion. Underneath the inharmonious
aed trivial particulars, is a musical perfec-
tion, the Ideal journeying always with us,
the heaven without rent or seam. Do but
observe the mode of our illumination.
When I converse with a profound mind,
or if at any time being alone I have good
thoughts, I do not at once arrive at satis-
factions, as when, being thirsty, I drink
water, or go to the fire, being cold ; no !
but I am first apprised of my vicinity to a
new and excellent region of life. By per-
sisting to read or to think, this region
gives further sign of itself, as it were
in flashes of light, in sudden discoveries
of its profound beauty and repose, as
if the clouds that covered it parted at
intervals, and showed the approaching
traveller the inland mountains, with the
tranquil eternal meadows spread at their
base, whereon flocks graze, and shepherds
pipe and dance. But every insight from
thig realm of thought is felt as initial* and
X09
promises a sequel. I do not make h ; I
arrive there, and behold what was there
already. I make! O no! L clap my
hands in infinite joy and anazement,
before the first opening to me of this
august magnificence, old with the love
and homage of innumerable ages, young
with the life of life, the sun-bright Mecca
of the desert. And what a future it opens !
I feel a new heart beating with the love of
the new beauty. I am ready to die out of
nature, and be born again into this new
yet unapproachable America I have found
in the West.
“ Since neither now nor yesterday began
These thou;;hts, which have been ever, nor
yet can
A man be found who their first entrance
knew.”
If I have described life as a flux of moods,
I must now add, that there is that in us
which changes not, and which ranks all
sensations and states of mind. The con-
sciousness 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. Tha
sentiment from which it sprung deter-
mines the dignity of any deed, and the
question ever is, not what you have done
or forborne, but at w'hose command you
have done or forborne it.
Fortune, Minerva, Muse, Holy Ghost —
these are quaint names, too narrow to
cover this unbounded substance. Tha
baffled intellect must atill kneel before
this cause, which refuses to be named — in-
effable cause, which every fine genius
has essayed to represent by some em-
phatic symbol, as Thales by water, or
Anaximenes by air, Anaxagoras by {sov%)
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 generalisation.
“ I fully understand language,” he said,
“ and nourish well my vast-flowing vigour,”
'* I beg to ask what you call vast-flowing
vigour ? ” said his companion. ” The ex-
planation,” replied Mencius, ” is difficult.
This vigour is supremely great, and in tha
highest degree unbending. Nourish it
correctly, and do it no injury, and it will
fill up the vacancy between heaven and
earth. This vigour accords with and
assists justice and reason, and leaves no
hunger.” In our more correct writing,
we give to this generalisation the name of
Being, and thereby confess that w# have
arrived as far as we con go. Sufifice it for
ESSAfS,
the joy of the universe, that we have not
arrived at a wall, but at interminable
oceans. Our life seems not present, so
much as prospective ; not for the affairs
on which it is wasted, but as a hint of
this vast-flowing vigour. Most of life
seems to be mere advertisement of faculty ;
information is given us not to sell our-
selves 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 j
we believe concerning the immortality of
the soul, or the like, but the universal
impulse to believe, that is the material i
circumstance, and is the principal fact in
the history of the globe. Shall we des-
cribe this cause as that v/hich works
directly ? The spirit is not helpless or
needful of mediate organs. It has plenti-
ful powers and direct effects. I am ex-
plained w'ithout explaining, I am felt
without acting, and v/hcre I am not
Therefore all just persons are satisfied
w'ith their own praise. They refuse to
explain themselves, and are content that j
new actions should do them that office.
They believe that we communicate with- j
out speech, and above speech, and that
no right action of wirs is quite unaffecting
to our friends, at whatever distance ; for
the influence of action is not to be mea-
sured by miles. Why should I fret my-
self, because a circumstance has occurred,
which hinders my presence where I was
expected ? If I am not at the meeting,
my presence where I am sliould be as
useful to the commonwealth of friendship
and wisdom, as would be my presence in
that place. I exert the same quality of
power in all places. Thus journeys the
mighty Ideal before us; it never was
known to fall into the rear. No man ever
came to an experience which was satia-
ting, but his good is tidings of a better.
Onward and onward 1 In liberated mo-
ments, we know that a new picture of life
and duty is already j^ossible ; the elements
already exist in many minds around you,
of a doctrine of life wdiich shall transcend
any written record we have. The new
statement will comprise the scepticisms,
as well as the faiths of society, and out of
unbeliefs a creed shall be formed. For,
scepticisms are not gratuitous or lawless,
but are limitations of the afTirmative state-
ment, ^nd the new philosophy must take
Ibem ID, and make affirmations outside of
them, just as much as it must include th3
oldest beliefs.
It is very unhappy, but too late to be
helped, the discovery we have made, that
we exist. That discovery is called the
Fall of Man. Ever afterwards, we suspect
our instruments. We have learned that
we do not see directly, but mediately, and
that we have no means of correcting these
coloured and distorted lenses which wo
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, en-
gages us. Nature, art, persons, letters,
religions — objects, successively tumble in,
and God is but one of its ideas. Nature
and literature are subjective phenomena ;
every evil and every good thing is a sha-
dow wliich we cast. The street is full of
humiliations to tlm proud. As the fop
contrived to dress his bailiffs in his livery,
and make them wait on his guests at table,
so the chagrins which the bad heart gives
off as bubbles, at once take form as ladies
and gentlemen in the street, shopmen or
bar-keepers in hotels, and threaten or in-
sult whatever is threatenable and insult-
able in us. 'Tis the same with our idola-
tries. People forget that it is the eye
which makes the horizon, and the round-
ing mind’s eye which makes this or that
man a type or representative of humanity
with the name of hero or saint. Jesus,
“ the providential man,” is a good man
on whom many people are agreed that
these optical laws shall take effect. By
love on one part, and by forbearance to
press objection on the other part, it is for
a time settled, that we look at him in the
centre of the horizon, and ascribe to him
the properties that will attach to any man
so seen. But the longest love or aversion
has a speedy term. The great and cres-
cive self, rooted in absolute nature, sup-
plants aH relative existence, and ruins the
kingdom of mortal friendship and love.
Marriage (in what is called the spiritual
world) is impossible, because of the in-
equality between every subject and every
object. The subject is the receiver of
Godhead, and at every comparison must
feel his being enhanced by that cryptic
might. Though not in energy, yet by pre-
sence, this magazine of substance cannot
be otherwise than felt ; nor can any force
of intellect attribute to the object the pro-
per deity which sleeps or wakes for ever in
EXPURtENCE.
er^Ty subject. Never can love make con-
sciousness and ascription equal in force.
There will be the same gulf betwep every
me and thee, as between the original and
the picture. The universe is the bride of
the soul. All private sympathy is partial.
Two humm beings are like globee which
can touch only in a point, and, whilst they
remain in contact, all other points of each
of the spheres are inert ; their turn must
also come, and the longer a particular
union lasts, the more energy of appetency
the parts not in union acquire.
Info will be imaged, but cannot be
divided nor doubled. Any invasion of its
unity would be chaos. The soul is not
twin-born, but tlie only begotten, and
though revealing itself s.s child in time,
child in apjiearance, is of a fatal and
univeisal power, admitting no co-life.
Every day, every act betrays the ill-con-
ccak'd deity. We believe in ourselves,
as we do not believe in others. We per-
mit all things to ourselves, and that which
we call sin in others is experiment for us.
It is an instance of our faith in ourselves,
that men never speak of crime as lightly
as they think : or, every man thinks a
latitude safe for himself, which is nowise
to be indulged to another. The act looks
very differently on the inside, and on the
outside ; in its quality, and in its con-
Kc(2ucnces. M urdcr in the murderer is no
such ruinous thought as poets and
romancers will have it; it does not iin-
ceille 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 confound-
ing of all relations. Especially the
crimes that spring from love, seem right
and fair from the actor's point of view,
but, when acted, are found destructive of
society. No man at last believes that he
can be lost, nor that tlie crime in him is
as black as in the felon. Because the
ii.itellect qualifies in our own case the
moral judgments. Eor there is no crime
to the intellect. That is antiuomian or
hypernomian, and judges law as well as
fact. “It is worse than a crime, it is a
blunder,” said Napoleon, speaking the
language of the intellect. To it, the
World is a problem in mathematics or the
science of quantity, and it leaves out
praise and blame, and all weak emotions.
All stealing is comparative. If you come
io absolutes, pray who does not steal ?
Saints are sad, because they behold sin j
(even when they speculate), from the point
of view of conscience, and not of the I
intellect; a confusion of thought. Sin
seen from the thought is a diminution or
less: seen from the conscience or ^fill, it
is pravity or dad. The intellect names its
shade, absence or light, and no essence.
The conscience must feeV it as essence,
essential evil. This it is not : it has an
objective existence, but no lubjective.
Thus inevitably does the universe wcir
our colour, and every object fall succes-
sively into the subject itself. The subject
exists, the subject enlarges ; all things
sooner or later fall into place. As I am,
so I see ; use what language we will, wo
can never see anything but what we are ;
Hermes, Cadmus, Columbus, Nev/ton,
Bonaparte, are the mind’s ministers. In-
stead of feeling a poverty when we
encounter a great man. let us treat the
new-comer li]:e a travelling geologist, who
passes tljrough 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
pointe(i. But every other part of know-
ledge is to be pushed to the same extrava-
gance, ere the soul attains her due
sphericity. Do you see that kitten chas-
ing 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
shouting, and we shall find it was a
solitary performance ? — A subject and an
object— -it takes so much to make the
galvanic circuit complete, but magnitude
adds nothing. What imports it whether
it is Kepler and the sphere; Columbus
and America ; a reader and his book ; or
puss with her tail ?
It is true that all the muses and love
and religion hate these developments, and
will find a way to punish the chemist, who
publisiies in the parlour the secrets of the
laboratory. And we cannot say too little
of our constitutional! necessity of seeing
things under private aspi;ct.s, or saturated
with our humours. And yet is the God the
native of these bleak rocks. That need
makes in morals the capital virtue of self-
trust. We must hold hard to this poverty,
however scandalous, and by more vigorous
self-recoveries, after the sallies of action,
possess our axes more firmly. Th%lifo of
truth is cold, and so far mournful ; but it
ESSAYS.
XiA
is not the slave of tears, contritions, and
perturbations. It does not attempt
another’s work, nor adopt another’s facts.
It is a main lesson of wisdom to know
your own from another’s. I have learned
that I cannot dispose of other people’s
facts ; but I possess such a key to my
own, as persuades me against all their
denials, that they also have a key to theirs.
A sympathetic person is placed in the
dilemma of a swimmer among drowning
men, who all catch at him, and if he give
BO 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. Chanty would be wasted on
this poor waiting on the symptoms. A
wise and hardy physician will say. Come
out of that, as the first condition of
advice.
In this our talking America, we are I
ruined by our good-nature and listening
on all sides. This compliance takes away
the power of being greatly useful. A man
should not be able to look other than
directly and forthright. A preoccupied 1
attention is the only answer to the impor-
tunate frivolity of other people ; an atten-
tion, and to an aim which makes their
wants frivolous. This is a divine ansv."er,
and leaves no appeal, and no hard thoughts.
In Flaxman’s drawing of the Eumenidcs |
of iEschylus, Orestes supplicates Apollo,
whilst the Furies sleep on the threshold.
The face of the god expresses a shade of
regret and compassion, but calm with the
conviction of the irreconcilableness of the
two spheres. He is born into 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 dis-
parity. The god is surcharged with his
divine destiny.
Illusion, Temperament, Succession,
Surface, Surprise, Reality, Subjectiveness
— these are threads on the loom of time,
these are the lords of life. I dare not
assume to give their order, but I name
them as I find them in my way. I know
better than to claim any completeness for
my picture. I am a fragment, and this is
a fragment of me. I can very confidently
announce one or another law, which
throws itself into relief and form, but I
am too young yet by some ages to compile
a code. I gossip for my concerning
the ettvnal politics. I ^ave seen many
Uir pictures not in vain, A wonderful
time I have lived in. I am not the novlco
I was fourteen, nor yet seven years ago.
Let who will ask, where is the fruit ? I
find a private fruit sufficient. This is a
fruit — that I should not ask for a rash
effect from meditations, counsels, and the
hiving of truths. I should feel it pitiful
to demand a result on this town and
county, an overt effect on the instant
month and year. The effect is deep and
secular as the cause. It works on periods
in which mortal lifetime is lost. All I
know is reception ; I am and I have : but
I do not get, and when I have fancied I
had gotten anything, I found I did not,
I worship with wonder the great Fortune.
My reception has been so large, that I am
not annoyed by receiving this or that
superabundantly. I say to the Genius, if
he will pardon the proverb, In for a mill,
in for a million. When I receive a new
gift, I do not macerate my body to make
the account square, for, if I should die, I
could not make the account square. The
benefit overran the merit the first day,
and has overran the merit ever since.
The merit itself, so called, I reckon part
of the receiving.
Also, that hankering after an overt or
practical effect seems to me an apostacy.
In good earnest I am willing to spare this
most unnecessary deal of doing. Life
wears to me a visionary face. Hardest,
roughest action is visionary also. It is
but a choice between soft and turbulent
dreams. Peoj^le disparage knowing and
the intellectual life, and urge doing. I am
very content with knowing, if only I could
know. That is an august entertainment,
and would suffice me a great while. To
know a little, would be worth tlie expense
of this world. I hear always the law of
Adrastia, “ that every soul which had
acquired any truth should be safe from
harm until another period."
I know that the world I converse with
in the city and in the farms is not the
world I think. I observe that difference,
and shall observe it. One day, I shall
know the value and law of this discrep-
I ance. But I have not found that much
j was gained by manipular attempts to
realise the world of thought. Many eager
persons juccessively make an experiment
in this way, and make themselves ridicu-
lous. They acquire democratic manners
they foam at the mouth, they hate and
deny. Worse, I observe, that in tha
history of mankind, there is never a
solitary example of success — taking their
own tasti ot lucgasa* 1 eay this polemi-
CHARACTER.
cally, or in reply to the inquiry, why not
realise your world ? But far be from me
the despair which prejudges the law by a
paltry empiricism — since there never was
a right endeavour, but it succeeded.
Patience and patience, we shall win at
‘he last. We must be very suspicious of
the deceptions of the element of time. It
takes a good deal of time to eat or to
sleep, or to earn a hundred dollars, and a
very little time to entertain a hope and an
insight which becomes the light of our
life, dress our garden, eat our
dinners, discuss the household with our
wives, and these things make no impres*
sion, are forgotten next week ; but in the
solitude to which every man is alwayj
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 realise
will bo the transformation of geniu* into
practical power,
CHARACTER.
The gun set *, but set not bis hope j
Stars rose ; his faith was earlier up:
Fixed on the enormous galaxy,
Deeper and older seemed his eye;
And matched his sufferance sublime
The taciturnity of time.
He spoke, and words more soft than rain
Brought the Age of Gold again :
Ilis action won such reverence sweet,
As hid all measure of the feat,
Work of his hand
He nor commends nor grieves ;
Pleads for itself the fact ;
As unrepenting Nature leaves
Her every act,
I HAVE read that those who listened to
Lord Chatham felt that there was some-
thing finer in the man than anything
which he said. It has been complained
of our brilliant English historian of the
French Revolution, that when he has told
all his facts about Mirabeau, they do not
justify his estimate of his genius. Tiie
Gracchi, Agis, Cleomenes, and others of
Plutarch’s heroes, do not in the record of
facts equal their own fame. .Sir Philip
Sidney, the Karl of E.ssex, Sir Walter
Raleigh, are men of great figure, and of
fev/ deeds. We cannot find the smallest
part of the personal weight of Washington
in the narrative of his exploits. The au-
thority of the name of Schiller is too
great for his books. This inequality of
the reputation to the works or the anec-
dotes, is not accounted for by saying that
the reverberation is longer than the |
thunder-clap ; but somewhat resided in
these men which begot an expectation
that outran all their performances. The
largest part of their power was latent.
This is that which wo call Character — a
reserved force which acts directly by pre*
sence, and without means. It is con-
ceived of as a certain undeinonstrable
force, a Familiar or Genius, by who.se
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 them-
selves very well alone. The purest
literary talent appears at one time great,
at another time small, but character is of
a stellar and undiminishable greatness.
What others effect by talent or by eloi
quence, this man accomplishes by some
magnetism. “ Half his strength he put
not forth.” His victories are by demon-
stration of superiority, and not by cross-
ing of bayonets. Ho conquers, because
his arrival alters the face of affairs. ” O
lole ! how did you know that Hercules
was a god ? ” ” Because,” answered lole,
‘‘ I was content the moment my eyes fell
on him. When I beheld Theseus, I de-
! sired that I might see him offer battle, or
at least guide his horses in the chariot-
race; but Hercules did not wait for a
contest ; he conquered whether he stood
or walked, or sat, or whatever thing he
did.” Man, ordinarily a pendant to
events, only half attached, and that awk-
wardly, to the world he lives in, in these
examples appears to share the life of
things, and to be an example 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, i!
it appears at all, can only occur in its
coarsest form, we sufficiently understand
its incomparable rate. The peopleiknow
that they need ia their representative
ESSAYS.
XM
much more tham talent, namely, the power
to make his talent trusted. They cannot
come at their ends by sending to Congress
a learned, acute, and duent speaker, if he
be not one who, before he was appointed
by the people to represent them, was ap-
pointed 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 con-
stituency at home hearkens to their words,
watches tlie colour of their cheek, and
therein, as in a glass, dresses its own.
Our public assemblies are pretty good
tests of manly force, Our frank country-
men of the West and South have a taste
for character, and like to know whether
the New-Knglander is a substantial man,
or whether the hand can pass through
him.
The same motive force appears in trade.
Tliere 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 wiU'kiiow as easily w'hy
he succeeds, as, if you see Napoleon, you
would comprehend his fortune. In the
new objects we recognise the old game,
the habit of fronting the fact, and not
dealing with it at second-hand, through
the perceptions of somebody else. Nature
seems to authorise trade, as soon as you
see the natural merchant, who appears
not so much a private agent, as her factor
and Minister of Commerce. His natural
probity combines with his insight into the
fabric of society, to put him above tricks,
and he communicates to all his own faith,
that contracts are of no private interpre-
tation. The habit of his mind is a refer-
ence to standards of natural equity and
public advantage ; and he inspires respect,
and the wish to deal with him, both for
the quiet spirit of honour which attends
him, and for the inteJJectiial pastime
which the spectacle of so much ability
affords. This immensely stretched trade,
which makes the capes of the Southern
Ocean^his wharves, and the Atlantic Sea
bis familiar port, centres in his brain
only; and nobody in the universe C&a
make his place good. In his parlour, I
see very well that he has been at hard
work this morning, with that knitted brow,^
and that settled humour, which all his
desires to bo 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, 1 see, with
the pride of art, and skill of masterly
arithmetic and powxr of remote combina-
tion, the consciousness of being an agent
and playfellow of the original laws of tha
world. He too believes that none can
supply him, and that a man must be born
to trade, or he cannot lear.n it.
This virtue draws the mind more, when
it appears in action to ends not so mixed.
It works with most energy in tlie smallest
companies and in private relations. In
all cases, it is an extraordinary and incom-
putable agent. The excess of physical
strength is paralysed by it. Higher
natures overpower lower ones by affecting
them with a certain sleep. The faculties
are locked up, and offer no resistance.
Perhaps that is the universal law. When
the high cannot bring up the low to itself,
it benumbs it, as man charms down the
resistance of the lower animals. Men
exert on each other a similar occult
power. How often has the influence of a
triui master realised all the tales of magic ?
A river of command seemed to run dowr
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 coloured 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 tha
answ'er was, “ Only that influence which
every strong mind has over a weak one.”
Cannot Csesar in irons shuffle off the
irons, and transfer them to the person of
Hippo or Thraso the turnkey ? Is an iron
handcuff so immutable a bond ? Suppose*
a slaver on the coast of Guinea should
take on board a gang of negroes, which
should contain persons of the stamp of
Toiissaint I'Ouverture : or let us fancy
under these swarthy masks he has a gang
of Washingtons in chains. When they
arrive at Cuba, will the relative order of
the ship’s company be the same ? \s
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 theso be suppose 1
CHARACTER.
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 co-operates with it.
The reason why we feel one man s pre-
sence, and do not feel another’s, is as
simple as gravity. Truth is the summit
of being; justice is the application of it
to affairs. All individual natures stand in
a scale, according to the purity of this
element in them. The will of the pure
runs down from them into other natures,
as water runs down from a higher into a
lower vessel. This natural force is no
moro to be withstood, than any other
natural force. We can drive a stone up-
ward for a moment into the air, but it is
yet true that all stones will for ever fall ;
and whatever instances can be quoted of
unpunished theft, or of a lie which some-
body credited, justice must prevail, and it
is the privilege of truth to make itself
believed. Character is this moral order
seen through the medium of an individual
nature. An individual is an encloser.
'rime and space, liberty and necessity,
truth and thought, are left at large no
longer. Now, ihe universe is a close or
pound. Ail things exist in the man tinged
with the manners of his soul. With what
quality is in him, ho infuses all nature
that he can reeich ; nor does he tend to
lose himself in vastness, but, at how long
a curve soever, all his regards turn into
his own good at last. lie animates all he
can, and he secs only what he animates.
He encloses the world, as the patriot does
his country, as a material basis for his
character, and a theatre for action. A
heahhy soul stands united with the Just
and the True, as the magnet arranges
itself with the pole, so that he stands to
all beholders like a transparent object be-
twixt them and the sun, and whoso
journeys towards the sun journeys towards
that person. He is thus the medium of
the highest influence to all who are not on
the same level. Tims, men of character
are the conscience of the society to which
they belong.
The natural measure of this power is
the resistance of circumstances. Impure
men consider life as it is reflected in |
opinions, events, and persons. They can-
not see the action, until it is done. Yet
its moral element pre-existed in the actor,
and its quality as right or wrong, it was |
easy to predict. Everything in nature is
bipolar, or has a positive and negative
pole. There is a male and a female, a’
XI5
spirit and a fact, a north and a south,
Spirit is the positive, the event Is the nega-
tive. 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 loc'k 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: the other class do not like to
hear of faults; they worship 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 ancillary ; it must follow him^
A given order of events has no power to
secure to him the satisfaction which the
imagination attaches to it ; the soul of
goodness e.scapes from any set of circum-
stances, v/hilst prosperity belongs to a
certain mind, and will introduce that
power and victory which is its natural
fruit, into any order of events. No change
of circumstances can repair a defect of
character. We boast our emancipation
from many superstitions ; but if vve have
broken any idols, it is through a transfer
of the idolatry. What have I gained, that
I no longer immolate a bull to Jove, or to
Neptune, or a mouse to Hecate ; that I do
tremble before the Eumenides, or the
Catholic Purgatory, or the Ca.lvinistic
judgment-day— if 1 quake at opinion, the
public opinion, as we call it ; or at the
threat of assault, or contumely, or bad
neighbours, or poverty, or mutilation, or
at the rumour ofrevolutioii, or ofmurder ?
If I quake, what matters it what I quake
at ? Our proper vice takes form in one or
another shape, according to the sex, age,
or temperament of the person, and, if wo
are capable of fear, will readily find
terrors. The covetousness or the malignity
which saddens me, when I ascribe it
to society, is my own. I am always
environed by myself. On the other part,
rectitude is a perpetual victory, celebra-
ted not by cries of joy, but by
serenity, which is joy fixed or habitual.
It is disgraceful to fly to events for con-
firmation of our truth and worth. Tho
capitalist does not run every hour to the
broker, to coin his advantages into cur-
rent 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 the
best events in the best order would oc»
ESSAYS.
Il6
casion me, t must learn to taste purer
in the perception that my position is every
hour meliorated, and does already com-
mand those events I desire. That exulta-
tion is only to be checked by the foresight
of an order of things so excellent, as to
throw all our prosperities into the deepest
shade.
The face which character wears to me
18 self-sufFicingness. I revere the person
who is riches ; so that I cannot think of
him as alone, or poor, or exiled, or un-
happy, or a client, but as perpetual
patron, benefactor, and beatified man.
Character is centrality, the impossibility
of being displaced or overset. A man
should give us a sense of mass. Society
is frivolous, and shreds its day into scraps,
its conversation into ceremonies and
escapes. But if I go to see an inge-
nious man, I shall think myself poorly
entertained if he give me nimble
pieces of benevolence and etiquette ;
rather he shall stand stoutly in his
place, and let me apprehend, if it were
only his resistance ; know that I have
encountered a new and positive quality ;
great refreshment for both of us. It is
much that he does not accept the con-
ventional opinions and practices. That
non-conformity will remain a goad and
remembrancer, and every enquirer will
have to dispose of him, in the first
place. There is nothing real or useful that
is not a seat of war. Our houses ring
with laughter, and personal and critical
gossip, but it helps little. But the uncivil,
unavailable man, who is a problem and
a threat to society, whom it cannot let
pass in silence, but must either worship
or hate — and to whom all parties feel
related, both the leaders of opinion, and
the obscure and eccentric — he helps ; he
puts America and Europe in the wrong,
and destroys the scepticism which says,
** man is a doll, let us eat and drink, ’tis
the best we can do,” by illuminating the
untried and unknown. Acquiescence in
the establishment, and appeal to the
public, indicate infirm faith, heads which
are not clear, and which must see a house
built, before they can comprehend the
plan of it. The wise man not only leaves
out of his thought the many, but leaves
out the few. Fountains, the self-moved,
the absorbed, the commander because he
is commanded, the assured, the primary —
they are good; for these announce the
instant presence of supreme power.
Ou»action should rest mathematically
on our substance. In nature, there are no
false valuations. A pound of water in the
ocean-tempest has no more gravity than
in a midsummer pond. All things work
exactly according to their quality, and
according to their quantity; attempt no-
thing they cannot flo, except man only.
He has pretension ; he wishes and at-
tempts 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 v/ere quite equal to what
they attempted, and did it: so equal, that
it was not suspected to be a grand and in-
imitable exploit. Yet there stands that
fact unrepeated, a high-watermark in mil-
itary history. Many have attempted it
since, and not been equal to it. It is only
on reality, that any power of action can
be based. No institution will be better
than the institutor. I knew an amiable
and accomplished person who undertook
a practical reform, yet I was never able to
find in him the enterprise of love he took
in hand. He adopted it by ear and by the
understanding from the books he had been
reading. All his action was tentative, a
piece of the city carried out into the fields,
and was the city still, and no new fact,
and could not inspire enthusiasm. Had
there been something latent in the man,
a terrible undemonstrated genius agita-
ting and embarrassing his demeanour, we
had watched for its advent. It is not
enough that the intellect should see the
evils, and their remedy. We shall still
postpone our existence, not take the
ground to which we are entitled, whilst it
is only a thought, and not a spirit that in-
cites us. We have not yet served up to it.
These are properties of life, and another
trait is the notice of incessant growth.
Men should be intelligent and earnest.
They must also make us feel, that they
have a controlling happy future, opening
before them, whose early twilights already
kindle in the passing hour. The hero ia
misconceived and misreported ; he cannot
therefore wait to unravel any man’s
blunders : he is again on his road, adding
new powers and honours 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 re-
lation to him, by adding to your wealth.
New actions are the only apologies and
explanations of old ones, which the noble
can bear to offer or to receive. If your
friend has displeased you, you shall not
Sit down to consider iti for be has already
CffAJRACTEX.
fmt all memory of the passage, and has
doubled his power to serve you, and, ere
you can rise up again will burden you
with blessings. ,
We have no pleasure in thinking of a
benevolence that is only measured by its
works. Love is inexhaustible, and if its
estate’is wasted, its granary emptied, still
cheers and enriches, and the man, though
he sleep, seems to purify the air, and
his house to adorn the landscape and
strengthen the laws. People always re-
cognise this difference. We know who is
benevolent, by quite other means than the
amount of subscription to soup-societies.
It is only low merits that can be enume-
rated, Fear, when your friends say to
you what you have done well, and say it
through ; but when they stand with un-
certain timid looks of respect and haif-
dislike, and must suspend their judgment
for years to come, you may begin to hope.
Those who live to the future must always
appear selfish to those v/ho live to the pre-
sent. Therefore it was droll in the good
Riemor, who has written memoirs of
Goethe, to make out a list of his dona-
tions and good deeds, as, so many hundred
tlialers 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 uni-
versities, &c., &c. The longest list of
specifications of benefit would look very
short. A man is a poor creature, if he is
to be measured so. For, all these, of
course, are exceptions ; and the rule and
hodiernal life of a good man is benefac-
tion. The true charity of Goethe is to be
inferred from the account he gave Dr.
Fcliermann, of the way in which he had
spent his fortune. ‘ ‘ Each bon-mot of mine
has cost a purse of gold. Half a million
of my own money, the fortune I inherited,
my salary, and the large income derived
from my writings for fifty years back, have
been expended to instruct me in what I
now know. I have besides seen,*’ &c.
I own it is but poor chat and gossip to
go to enumerate traits of this simple and
rapid power, and we are painting the
lightning with charcoal ; but in these long
nights and vacations, I like to console
myself so. Nothing but itself can copy
it. A word warm from the heart enriches
me. I surrender at discretion. How death -
cold is literary genius before this fire of
life I These are the touches that reani-
mate my heavy soul, and give it eyes to
pierce the dark of nature. I find, where I
thought myself poor, there I was most
rich. Thence comes a new intellcictual
exaltation, to be again rebuked by some
new exhibition of character. Strange
alternation of attraction and repulsion 1
Character repudiates intellect, yet ex-
cites it ; and character passes into thought,
is published so, and then is ashamed be-
fore new flashes of moral worth.
Character is nature in the highest form.
It is of no use to ape it, or te contend
with it. Somewhat is possible of resist-
ance, and of persistence, and of creation,
to this power, which will foil all emula-
tion.
This masterpiece is best where no hand*
but nature’s have been laid on it. Care
is taken tliat the greatly-destined shall
slip lip 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 sanc-
tity, 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 democratised. How cloistered
and constitutionally sequestered from the
market and from scandal { It was only
this morning, that I sent away some wild
flowers of these wood-gods. They are a
relief from literature — these fresh draughts
from the sources of thought and senti-
ment ; as we read, in an age of polish and
criticism, the first linos of vixitten prose
and verse of a nation. How captivating
is their devotion to their favourite books,
whether iEschylus, Dante, Shakespeare,
or Scott, as feeling that they have a stake
in that tx)ok ; 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.
Could they dream on still, as angels, and
not wake to comparisons, and to be flat-
tered ! Yet some natures are too good to
be spoiled by praise, and v^herever the
vein of thought reaches down into the
profound, there is no danger from vanity.
Solemn friends will warn them^f the
danger of the bead’s turned by tbf
xiS
ESSAYS,
flourish of trumpets, but they can afford
to smile. I remember the indignation of
an eloquent Methodist at the kind admoni-
tions of a Doctor of Divinity — “ My friend,
a man can neither be praised nor in-
sulted.” But forgive the counsels ; they
are very natural. I remember the thought
which occurred to me wdien some ingeni-
ous and spiritual foreigners came to
America, was, Have you been victimised
in being brought hither ? — or, prior to
that, answer me this, Are you victimis-
able ? ”
As I have said. Nature keeps these
sovereignties in her own hands, and how-
ever pertly our sermons and disciplines
w'ould divide some share of credit, and
teach that the laws fashion the citizen,
she goes her own gait, and puts the wisest j
in the wmong. She makes very light of I
gospels and prophets, as one who has a
great many more to produce, and no ex-
cess of time to spare on any one. There
is a class of men, individuals of which
appear at long intervals, so eminently en-
dowed with insiglit and virtue, that they
have been unanimously sa^lutcd as divine,
and who seem to be an accumulation of
that power we consider. Divine persons
are character born, or to borrov/ a phrase
from Napoleon, they are victory organised.
They are usually received with an 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 resem-
blance to some historical person, and pre-
dict the sequel of his character and for-
tune, a result which he is suro to
disappoint. None will ever solve the
problem of his character according to our
prejudice, but only in his own high un-
precedented 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
..-pidly; and we should not require rash
explanation, either on the popular ethics,
or on our own, of its action,
I look on Sculpture as history. I do not
think the Apollo and the Jove impossible
in flesh and blood. Every trait which the
artist recorded in stone, he had seen in
life, and better than his copy. We have
seen many counterfeits, but we are born
beiievors in great men. How easily we i
read tn old books, when men were few, '
of the smallest action of the patriarchs,
We require that a man should be so largo
and columnar in the landscape, that it
should deserve to be recorde/3, that he
arose, and girded up his loins, and de-
parted 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
j sage arrived at Balkh, the Persians tell us,
! Gushtasp appointed a day on which tho
Mobeds of every country should assemble,
and a golden chair was placed for tho
Yunani sage. Tlien the beloved of Yez-
dam, the prophet Zertusht, advanced into
the midst of tho assembly. The Yunani
sage, on seeing that chief, said, “'I'his
form and this gait cannot lie, and nothing
but truth can proceed from thorn." I’lato
said, it was impossible not to believe in
the children of tlie gods, " though they
should speak without probable or necen*
sary arguments." I should think myself
very unhappy in my associates, if I could
not credit the best things in history.
" John Bradshaw," says Milton, " appears
like a consul, from whom the fasces are
not to depart with the year ; so that not
on the tribunal only, but throughout his
life, you would regard him as sitting in
judgment upon kings." I find it more
creditable, since it is anterior iiiformation,
that one man should kiiow heaven, as tho
Chinese say, than that so many men should
know tho world. " The virtuous prince
confronts the gods, without any misgiving,
He waits a hundred ages till a sage comes,
and does not doubt. He who confronts
the gods without any misgiving, knows
heaven ; he who waits a hundred ages
until a sage comes, without doubting,
knows men. Hence the virtuous prince
moves, and for ages shows empire the
way." But there is no need to seek re-
mote 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 inexpli-
cable influences. One man fastens an eye
on him, and the graves of the memory
render up their dead ; the secrets that
make him wretched either to keep or
to betray must be yielded ; another, and
he cannot speak, and the bones of hia
body seem to lose their cartilages ; tho
entrance of a friend adds grace, boldness,
and eloquence to him ; and there are per-
sons ho cannot choose but remember,
CHARACTER,
who gave a transcerident expansion to his
thought, and kindled another life in his
bosom.
What is so excellent as strict relations
of amity, when they spring from this deep
root ? The sufficient reply to the sceptic,
who doubts the power and the furniture
cf man, is in that Dossibiiity of joyful in-
tercourse 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 under-
standing, which can subsist, after much
exchange of good offices, between two
virtuous men, each of whom is sure of
himself, and sure of his friend. It is a
happiness which postpones all other grati-
fications, and makes politics, and com-
luerco, and churches, cheap. For, when
men shall meet as they ought, each a
benefactor, a shower of stars, clothed with
thoughts, with deeds, with accomplish-
nierits, it should be the festival of nature
which all things announce. Of such friend-
ship, love in the sexes is the first symbol,
US 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 rela-
tions with men ! — if we could abstain from !
asking anything of them, from asking their
praise, or help, or pity, and content us
with compelling them through the virtue
of the eldest laws ! Could we not deal
with a few persons — with one person —
after the unwritten statutes, and make an
experiment of their efficacy ? Could we
not pay our friend the compliment of
truth, of silence, of forbearing ? Need we
bo so eager to seek him ? If we are re-
lated, we shall meet. It was a tradition
of the ancient world that no metamor-
phosis could hide a god from a god ; and
there is a Greek verse which runs,
“ Tho Gods are to each other not unknown.”
Friends also follow the laws of divine
necessity ; they gravitate to each other,
and cannot otherwise ;
When each tlie other shall avoid,
Shall each by each be most enjoyed.
Their relation is not made but allowed.
The gods must seat themselves without
seneschal in our Olympus, and as they
can install themselves by seniority divine.
Society is spoiled, if pain.s are taken, if
the associates are brought a mile to meet.
And if it be not society, it is a mischievous,
119
low, degrading Jangle, though made up of
the best. All the greatness of each is
kept back, and every foible in painful ac-
tivity, as if the Olympians should meet to
exchange snuff-boxes.
Life goes headlong. We chase some
flying scheme, or we are hunted by some
fear or command behind us. But if sud
denly we encounter a friend, we pause
our heat and hurry look foolish enough ;
now pause, now possession, is required,
and the power to swell the moment from
the resources of the heart. The moment
is all, in all noble relations.
A divine person is the prophecy of the
mind ; a friend is the hope of tho heart.
Our beatitude waits for the fulfilment of
these two in one. The ages are opening
this moral force. All force is the shadow
or symbol of that. Poetry is joyful and
strong, as it draws its inspiration thence.
Men write their names on the world, as
they are filled with this. History has been
mean ; our nations have been mobs ; we
have never seen a man ; that divine form
we do not yet know, but only the dream
and prophecy of such : we do not know
the majestic manners which belong to
him, whicli appease and exalt the be-
holder. We shall one day see that the
most private is the most public energy,
that quality atones for quantity, and gran-
deur of character acts in the dark, and
succours them who never saw it. What
greatness has yet appeared, is beginnings
and encouragements to us in this direction.
The history of those gods and saints
which the world has written, and then
worshipped, are documents of character.
The ages liave exulted in the manners of
a youth who owed nothing to fortune, and
who was hanged at the Tyburn of his
nation, who, by the pure quality of his
nature, shed an epic splendour around
the facts of his death, which has trans-
figured every particular into an universal
symbol for the eyes of mankind. This
great defeat is hitherto our highest fact.
But the mind requires a victory to the
senses, a force of character which will
convert judge, jury, soldier, and king;
which will rule animal and mineral virtues,
and blend with the courses of sap, of rivers,
of winds, of stars, and of moral agents.
If we cannot attain at a bound to thesa
grandeurs, at least, let us do them homage.
In society, high advantages are set down
to the possessor, as disadvantages. It
requires the more wariness in our private
estimates. I do not forgive in my frUnda
the failure to know a fiao character, and
I
120
ESSAYS.
to entertain It with thankful hospitalit3r. fact. Whilst it blooms, I will keep sabbath
When, at last, that which we have always or holy time, and suspend my gloom, and
longed for, is arrived, and shines on us my folly and jokes. Nature Is indulged
with glad rays out of that far celestial by the presence of this guest. There are
land, then to be coarse, then to be critical, many eyes that can detect and honour the
and treat such a visitant with the jabber prudent and household virtues ; there are
and suspicion of the streets, argues a many that can discern Genius on his
vulgarity that seems to shut the doors of starry track, though the mob is incapable ;
heaven. This is confusion, this the right but when that love which is all-suffering,
insanity, when the soul no longer knows all-abstaining, all-aspiring, which has
its own, nor where its allegiance, its re- vowed to itself, that it will be a wretch
ligion, are due. Is there any religion but and also a fool in this world, sooner than
this, to know, that, wherever in the wide soil its white hands by any compliances,
desert of being, the holy sentiment we comes into our streets sflnd houses — only
cherish has opened into a flower, it blooms the pure and aspiring can know its face,
for me ? if none sees it, I see it ; I am and the only compliment they can pay it,
%ware, if I alone, of the greatness of the is to own it.
MANNERS.
they know nothing of." In the deserts of
Borgoo, the rock-Tibboos still dwell in
caves, like cliff-swallows, and the language
of these negroes is compared by their
neighbours to the shrieking of bats, and to
the whistling of birds. Again, th^
Bornoos have no proper names; indi-
viduals are called after their height, thick-
ness, 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, findltheir
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 ; honours himself
with architecture ; writes laws, and con-
trives to execute his will through the
hands of many nations; and, especially,
establishes a select society, running
through all the countries of intelligeni
men, a self-constituted aristocracy, or
fraternity of the best, which, without
written law or exact usage of any kind,
perpetuates itself, colonises every new
planted island, and adopts and makes its
own whatever personal beauty or extra-
ordinary native endowment anywhere
nothing to lose. If the house do not appears.
please them, they walk out and enter What fact more conspicuous in modern
another, as there are several hundreds history, than the creation of the gentle-
at their command. It is somewhat man ? Chivalry is that, and loyalty ia
singular,” adds Belzoni, to whom we owe that, and, in English literature, half the
this account, ” to talk of happiness among drama, and all the novels, from Sir Philip
peogle who live in sepulchres, among the Sidney to Sir Walter Scott, paint this
corpses aod rags of ancient natipa which • figure. The word gentlemant wNch, like
** How near to good is what is fair I
Which we no sooner see,
But with the lines and outward ait
Our senses taken be.
“Again yourselves compose.
And now put all the aptness on
Of Figure, that Proportion
Or Colour can disclose j
That if those silent arts were lost,
Design and Picture, they might boast
From you a newer ground,
Instructed by the heightening sense
Of dignity and reverence
In tneir true motions found.”
Ben Jonson.
Half the world, it is said, knows not how
the other half live. Our Exploring
Expedition saw the Feejee - Islanders
getting their dinner off human bones ; and
they are said to eat their own wives and
children. The husbandry of the modern
inhabitants of Goumou (west of old
Thebes) is philosophical to a fault To
set up their housekeeping, 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
MANNERS.
121
the word Christian, must hereafter
characterise the present and the few
preceding centuries, by the importance
attached to it, is a homage to personal
and incommunicable properties. Frivo-
lous and fantastic additions have got
associated with the name, but the steady
interest of mankind in it must be attribu-
ted to the valuable properties which it
designates. An element which unites all
the most forcible persons of every
country ; makes them intelligible and
agreeable to each ocher, and is somewhat
so precise, that it is at once felt if an
individual lack the masonic sign, cannot
be any casual product, but must be an
average result of the character and
faculties universally found in men. It
seems a certain permanent average; as
the atmosphere, is a permanent composi-
tion, whilst so many gases are combined
only to be decompounded. Coinme il faut,
is the Frenchman’s description of good
society, as we must be. It is a spontaneous
fruit of talents and feelings of precisely
that class who have most vigour, who take
the lead in the world of this hour, and,
though far from pure, far from constituting
the gladdest and highest tone of human
feeling, is as good as the whole society |
permits it to be. It is made of the spirit,
more than of the talent of men, and is a
compound result, into which every great
force enters as an ingredient, namely,
virtue, wit, beauty, wealth, and power. '
There is something equivocal in all the
words in use to express the excellence of
manners and social cultivation, because
the quantities are fluxional, and the last j
effect is assumed by the senses as the j
cause. The word gentleman has not any
correlative abstract to express the quality.
Gentility is mean, and gentilesse is obso-
lete. But we must keep alive in the ver-
nacular the distinction between fashion.
a word of narrow and often sinister mean-
ing, and the heroic character which tho
gentleman imports. The usual words,
hovv'ever, must be respected : tkey will be
found to contain tho 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 lord-
ship in his behaviour, not in any manner
dependent and servile either on persons,
or opinions, or possessions. Beyond this
fact of truth and real force, the word
denotes good - nature or benevolence :
manhood first, and then gentleness. The
popular notion certainly adds a condition
of ease and fortune ; but that is a natural
result of personal force and love, that they
should possess and dispense the goods of
tho world. In times of violence, every
eminent person must fall in with many
opportunities to approve his stoutness
and worth ; therefore every man’s name
that emerged at all from the mass in the
feudal ages, rattles in our ear like a
flourish of trumpets. But personal force
never goes out of fashion. That is still
paramount to-day, and, in the moving
crowd of good society, the men of valouj
and reality are known, and rise to their
natural place. The competition is trans-
ferred 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 gen-
tlemen knock at tho door ; but whexever
used in strictness, and with any emphasis,
the name will be found to point at original
energy. It describes a man standing in
his own right, and working after untaught
methods. In a good lord, there must first
be a good animal, at least to the extent of
! yielding the incomparable advantage of
animal spirits. The ruling class must
have more, but they must have these,
I giving in every company the sense of
power, which make things easy to be done
which daunt the wise. The society of tho
energetic class, in their friendly and fes-
tive meetings, is full of coura.ge, and of
I attempts, which intimidate the pale
scholar. The courage which girls ex-
hibit is like a battle of Lundy’s Lane, or a
sea-fight. The intellect relies on memory
to make some supplies to face these ex-
temporaneous sqaudrons. 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 tho
work of the world, and equal to their ver-
satile 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 cunninfest
forms,") and am of Qj?inion that the gen-
122
ESSAYS.
tleman i& ihe bold fellow whose forms are graceful is renewed. Fine manners show
not to be broken through ; and only that themselves formidable to the uncultivated
plenteous nature is rightful master, which man. They are a subtler science of de*
IS the complement of whatever person it fence to parry and intimidate ; but once
converses with. My gentleman gives the matched by the skill of the other party,
law where he is; he will outpray saints in they drop the point of the sword — points
chapel, outgeneral veterans in the field, and fences dirappear, and the youth finds
and outshine all courtesy in the hall. He himself in a more transparent atmos-
is good company for pnrates, and good phere, wherein life is a less troublesome
with academicians ; so that it is useless to game, and not a misunderstanding rises
fortify yourself against him ; he has the between the players. Manners aim to
private entrance to all minds, and I could facilitate life, to get rid of impediments,
as easily exclude myself, as him. The and bring the man pure to energise. They
famous gentlemen of Asia and Europe aid our dealing and conversation, as a
have been of this strong type ; Saladin, railway aids travelling, by getting rid of
Sapor, the Cid, Julius Ca:sar, Scipio, all avoidable obstructions of the road, and
Alexander, Pericles, and the lordliest per- leaving nothing to be cenquered but pure
senages. They sat very carelessly in tlieit space. These forms very soon become
chairs, and were too excellent themselves, fixed, and a fine sense of propriety is cul-
to value any condition at a high rate. tivated with the more heed, tliat;it becomea
A plentiful fortune is reckoned neces- a badge of social and civic distinclions.
sary, in the popular judgment, to the com- Thus grows up Fashion, an equivocal som-
pletion of this man of the world ; and it blance, the most puissant, the most fan-
is a material deputy which walks through tastic and frivolous, the most feared and
the dance which the first has led. Money followed, and which morals and violence
is not essential, but this wide affinity is, assault in vain.
which transcends the habits of clique and There exists a strict relation between
caste, and makes itself felt by men of all the class of power, and the exclusive and
classes. If the aristocrat is only valid in polished circles. The last arc always
fashionable circles, and not with truck- filled or filling from the first. The strong
men, he will never be a leader in fashion ; men usually gave some allowance even to
and if the man of the people cannot speak the petulances of fashion, for that affinity
on equal terms with the gentleman, so they find in it. Napoleon, child of the
that the gentleman ahall perceive that he revoluton, destroyer of the old noblesse,
is already really of his own order, he is never ceased to court the Faubourg St!
not to be feared. Diogenes, Socrates, Germain, doubtless with the feeling, that
and Epaminondas are gentlemen of the fashion is a homage to men of his stamp,
best blood, who have chosen the condition Fashion, though in a strange way, ropre^
of poverty, when that of wealth was sents all manly virtue. It is'virtue gone to
equally open to them. I use these old seed ; it is a kind of posthumous honour,
names, but the men I speak of are my It docs not often caress the great, but the
contemporaries. Fortune will not supply children of the great ; it is a hall of the Past,
to every generation one of these wcll-ap- It usually sets its face against the great of
pointed knights, but every collection of this hour. Great men are not commonly in
men furnishes some example of the class ; its halls; they are absent in the field*
and the politics of this country, and the they are working, not triumphing. Fash-
trade of every town, are controlled by ion is made up of their children ; of those
these hardy and irresponsible doers, who who, through the value and virtue of
have invention to take the lead, and a somebody, have acquired lustre to their
broad^ sympathy which puts them in fel- name, marks of distinction, means of cub
lowship with crowds, and makes their tivation and generosity, and, in their
r . physical organisation, a certain healih
The manners of this class are observed and excellence, which secures to them if
and caught with devotion by men of taste, not the high est power to work, yet high
The association of these masters with power to enjoy. The class of power, the
each other, and with men intelligent of working heroes, the Cortez, the Nelson,
their merits, is mutually agreeable and the Napoleon, see that this is the festivity
stimulating. The good forms, the hap- and permanent celebration of such as
expressions of each, are repeated they ; that fashion is funded talent ; is
jndradopted. By swift consent, every- Mexico, Marengo, and Trafalgar beatet
thing superfluous is dropped, everything out thin; that the brilliant names of fashion
MANMhRS.
n/jTi back t 6 just auch busy nsLiHes as their
own, fifty or sixty years ago. They are
the sowers, their sons shall be the reapers,
and their sons, in tho ordinary course of
things, must yield the possession of the
harvest to new competitors with keener
eyes and stronger frames. The city is
recruited from the country. In the year
1805, it is said every legitimate monarch
in Europe v/as imbecile. The city would
have died out, rotted, and exploded, long
ago, but that it was reinforced from the
fields. It is only country which came to
town day before yesterday, that is city
and court to-day.
Aristocracy and fashion are certain in-
evitable results. These mutual selections
are indestructible. If they provoke anger
in the least favoured class, and the ex-
cluded majority revenge themselves on
the excluding minority, by the strong
hand, and kill them, at once a new class
finds itself at tho top, as certainly as
cream rises in a bowl of milk ; and if the
peoplo should destroy class after class,
until two men only were left, one of these
would be the leader, and would be involun-
tarily served and copied by the other.
You may keep this minority out of sight
and out of mind, but it is tenacious of life,
and is one of the estates of the realm. I
am the more struck with this tenacity,
when I see its work. It respects the ad-
ministration of such unimportant matters,
that we should not look for any durability
in its rule. We sometimes meet men
under some strong moral influence, as a
patriotic, a literary, a religious movement,
and feel that the moral sentiment rules
man and nature. We think all other dis-
tinctions and ties will be slight and fugi-
tive, this of caste or fashion, for example ;
yet come from year to year, and see how
permanent that is, in this Boston or New
York life of man, where, too, it has not
the least countenance from the law of the
land. Not in Egypt or in India a firmer
or more impassable line. Here are asso-
ciations whose ties go over, and under,
and through it, a meeting of merchants, a
military corps, a college class, afire-club,
a professional association, a political, a
religious convention ; the persons seem
to draw inseparably near ; yot, that as-
sembly 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 gradua-
tion depends on some symmetry in his
structure, or some agreement in his struc-
ture to the symmetry of society. Its
doors unbar instantaneously to a natural
claim of their own kind. A natural gentle-
man finds his way in, and will keep the
oldest patrician out, v/ho has lost his in-
trinsic rank. Fashion understands itself*
good-breeding and personal superiority
of whatever country readily fraternise
with those of every other. The chiefs of
savage tribes have distinguished them-
selves in London and Paris, by tho purity
of their tournure.
To say what good of fashion we can— *
it rests on reality, and hates nothing so
much as pretenders; to exclude and
mystify pretenders, and send them into
everlasting “ Coventry,” is its delight.
We contemn, in turn, c mry other gift of
men of the world ; but the habit even in
little and the least matters, of not appeal-
ing to any but our own sense of propriety,
constitutes tho foundation of all chivalry.
There is almost no kind of self-reliance,
so it be sane and proportioned, which
fashion does not occasionally adopt, and
give it the freedom of its saloons. A
sainted soul is always elegant, and, if it
vs^ill, passes unchallenged into the most
guarded ring. But so will Jock the team-
ster pass, in some crisis that brings him
thither, and find favour, as long as his
head is not giddy v/ith the new circum-
stance, and the iron shoes do not wish to
dance in waltzes and cotillons. For there
is nothing settled in manners, but the
laws of behaviour yield to the energy of
the individunl. The maiden at her first
ball, tlie countryman 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 coinposur®,
and self-content. A circle of men per-
fectly well-bred would be a company of
sensible persons, in which every man’*
native manners and character appeared,
If the fashionist have not this quality, he
is nothing. We are such lovqrs of sell-
124 ESSAYS.
reliance, that we excuse ia a man many
Bins, if he will show us a complete satis-
faction in his position, which asks no
leave to be, of mine, or any man’s good
opinion. But any deference to some
eminent man or woman of the world for-
feits all privilege of nobility. He is an
underling ; I have nothing to do with him ;
I will speak with his master. A man
should not go where he cannot carry his
whole sphere or society with him — not
bodily, the whole circle of his friends, but
atmospherically. He should preserve in
a new company the same attitude of mind
and reality of relation, which his daily
associates draw him to, else he is shorn
of his best beams, and will be an orphan
in the merriest club. “ If you could see
Vich Ian Vohr with his tail on ! ” But
Vich Ian Vohr must always carry his be-
longings in some fashion, if not added as
honour, then severed as disgrace.
There will always be in society certain
ersons who are mercuries of its appro-
ation, and whose glance will at any time
determine for the curious their standing
in the world . These are the chamberlains
of the lesser gods. Accept their coldness
as an omen of grace with the loftier
deities, and allow them all their privilege.
They are clear in their office, nor could
they be thus formidable, without their
own merits, But do not measure the im-
portance of this class by their pretension,
or imagine that a fop can be the dispenser
of honour and shame. They pass also at
their just rate ; for how can they other-
wise, in circles which exist as a sort of
herald’s office for the sifting of character ?
As the first thing man requires of man,
Is reality, so, that appears in all the forms
of society. We pointedly, and by name,
introduce the parties to each other.
Know you before all heaven and earth,
that this is Andrew, and this is Gregory ;
they look (^ach other in the eye; they
grasp each other’s hand, to identify and
signalise each other. It is a great satis-
faction. 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 j
BO many visits and hospitalities ? Is it !
your draperies, pictures, and decorations ? |
Or, do we not insatiably ask, Was a man
in the house? I may easily go into a
great household where there is much sub- !
stance, excellent provision for comfort,
luxury, and taste, and yet not encounter
therf^ any Amphitryon, who shall subordi-
nate 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
I fronts me accordingly. It was therefore
a very natural point of old feudal etiquette,
i 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. Everybody
we know surrounds himself with a fine
house, fine books, conservatory, gardens,
equipage, and all manner of toys, as
screens to interpose between himself and
his guest. Does it not seem as if man
was of a very sly, elusive nature, and
dreaded nothing so much as a full ren-
contre front to front with his fellow ? It
were unmerciful, I know, quite to abolish
I the use of these screens, which are of
I eminent convenience, whether the guest
is too great, or too little. Wo call to-
gether many friends who keep each other
in play, or, by luxuries and ornaments wo
amuso the young people, and guard our
retirement. Or if, perchance, a searching
realist comes to our gate, before whoso
eye we have no care to stand, then again
we run to our curtain, and hide ourselves
as Adam at the voice of the Lord God in
the garden. Cardinal Caprara, the Pope’s
legate at Paris, defended himself from the
glances of Napoleon, by an immense pair
of green spectacles. Napoleon remarked
them, and speedily managed to rally them
off; and yet, Napoleon, in his turn, v-zaa
not great enough, with eight hundred
thousand troops at his back, to face a
pair of freeborn eyes, but fenced himself
with etiquette, and within triple barriers
of reserve; and, as all the world knows
from Madame de Stael, was wont, when
he found himself observed, to discharge
his face of all expression. But emperors
and rich men are by no means the most
skilful masters of good manners. No
rent-roll nor army-list can dignify skulk-
ing and dissimulation; and the first point
to courtesy must always be truth, as really
all the forms of good breeding point that
way.
I have jurt been reading, in Mr. Hazlitt’i
translation, Montaigne’s account of his
journey into Italy, and am struck with
nothing more agreeably than the self-
respecting fashions of the time. His
arrival in each place, the arrival of a
gentleman of France, is an event of some
consequence. Wherever he goes, he pays
MANNERS.
A visit to whatever prince or gentleman of
note resides upon i^is road, as a duty to
himself and to civilisation. When he
Leaves any house in which he has lodged
for a few weeks, he causes his arms to be
painted and hung up as a perpetual sign
to the house, as was the custom of gentle-
men.
The complement of this graceful self-
respect, and that of all the points of good
breeding I most require and insist upon,
is deference. I like that every chair
should be a throne, and hold a king. I
prefer a tendency to stateliness, to an
excess of fellowship. Let the incommuni-
cable objects of nature and the meta-
physical isolation of man teach us inde-
pendence. Let us not be too much ac-
quainted. I would have a man enter his
house through a hall filled with heroic
and sacred sculptures, that he might not
want the hint of tranquillity and selLpoise.
We should meet each morning as from
foreign countries, and spending the day
together, should depart at night, as into
foreign countries. In all things I would
have the island of a man inviolate. Let
us sk apart as the gods, talking from peak
to peak all around Olympus. No degree
of affection need invade this religion.
This is myrrh and rosemary to keep the
other sweet. Lovers should guard their
strangeness. If they forgive too much,
all slides into confusion and meanness.
It is easy to push this deference to a
Chinese etiquette ; but coolness and
absence of heat and haste indicate fine
qualities. A gentleman makes no noise :
a lady is serene. Proportionate is our
disgust at those invaders who fill a studious
house with blast and running, to secure
some paltry convenience. Not less I
dislike a low sympathy of each with his
neighbour’s needs. Must we have a good
understanding with one another’s palates ?
as foolish people who have lived long to-
gether know when each wants salt or
sugar. I pray my companion, if he wishes
for bread, to ask me for bread, and if he
wishes for sassafras or arsenic, to ask me
for them, and not to hold out his plate as
if I knew already. Every natural function
can be dignified by deliberation and
privacy. Let us leave hurry to slaves.
The compliments and ceremonies of our
breeding should recall, 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
X25
intellectual quality. To the leaders of
men, the brain as well as the flesh and
the heart must furnish a proportion.
Defect in manners is usually the defect of
fine perceptions. Men are too coarsely
made for the delicacy of beautiful carriage
and customs. It is not quite sufficient to
good breeding, a union of kindness and
independence. We imperatively require
a perception of, and a homage to, beauty
in our companions. Other virtues are in
request in the field and work -yard, 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 unpre*
sentable 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 rigour,
into all parts of life. The average spirit
of the energetic class is good sense, acting
j 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 super-
lative degree, or converses with heat, is
quickly left alone. If you wish to bo
loved, love measure. You must have
genius, or a prodigious usefulness, if you
will hide the want of measure. Tliis per-
ception comes in to polish and perfect the
parts of the social instrument. Society
will pardon much to genius and special
gifts, but, being in its nature a convention,
it loves what is conventional, or what
belongs to coming together. That makes
the good and bad of manners, namely,
what helps or hinders fellowship. For,
fashion is not good sense absolute, but
relative ; not good sense private, but good
sense entertaining company. It hates
corners and sharp points of character,
hates quarrelsome, egotistical, solitary,
and gloomy people ; hates whatever can
interfere with total blending of parties ;
whilst it values all peculiarities as in the
highest degree refreshing, which can
consist with good fellowship. And besides
the general infusion of wit to heighten
civility, the direct splendour of intellectual
power is ever welcome in fine society as
the costliest condition to its rule and its
credit.
The dry light must shine in to adorn
our festival but it must be tempered and
shaded, or that will also offend. Accu-
racy is essential to beauty, and quick
ESSAYS.
tit
perceptions td politenew, but not too
quick perceptions. One may be too
punctual and too precise. He must leave
the omniscience of business at the door,
when he comes into the palace of beauty.
Society loves creole natures, and sleepy,
languishing manners, so that they cover
sense, grace, and good-will: ther air of
drowsy strength, which disarms criticism ;
perhaps, because such a person seems to
reserve himself for the best of the game,
and not spend himself on surfaces ; an
ignoring eye, w'hich does not see the
annoyances, shifts, and inconveniences,
that cloud the brow and smother the
voice of the sensitive.
Therefore, beside personal force and so
much perception as constitutes unerring
taste, society demands in its patrician
class, another element already intimated,
which it significantly terms good-nature,
expressing all degrees of generosity, from
the lowest willingness and faculty to
oblige, up to the heights of magnanimity
and love. Insight we must have, or we
shall run against one another, and miss
the way to our food ; but intellect is
selfish and barren. The secret of success
in society is a certain heartiness and
sympathy. A man who is not happy in
the company, cannot find any word in his
memory that will fit the occasion. All his
information is a little impertinent. A man
who is happy there, finds in every turn of
the conversation equally lucky occasions
for the introduction of that which he has
to say. The favourites of society, and
what it calls whole soiilSt are able men,
and of more spirit than wit, who have no
uncomfortable egotism, but who exactly
fill the hour and the company, contented
and contenting, at a marriage or a funeral,
a ball or a jury, a water-party or a shoot-
ing-match. England, which is rich in
gentlemen, furnished, in the beginning of
the present century, a good model of that
genius which the world loves, in Mr, Fox,
who added to his great abilities the most
social disposition, and real love of men.
Parliamentary history has few better
passages than the debate in which Burke
and Fox separated in the House of Com-
mons ; when Fox urged on his old friend
the claims of old friendship with such
tenderness, that the house was moved to
tears. Another anecdote is so close to
my matter, that I must haxard 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 ii a
debt of honour : if an accident should
happen to me, he has nothing to show."
“ Then," said the creditor, “ I change my
debt into a debt of honour," and tore the
note in pieces. Fox thanked the man for
his confidence, and paid him, saying, " his
debt was of older standing, and Sheridan
must wait.” Lover of liberty, friend of
the Hindoo, friend of the African slave,
he possessed a great personal popularity ;
and Napoleon said of him on the occasion
of his visit to Paris, in 1805, ” Mr. Fox
will always hold the first place in an
assembly at the 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 cast a
species of derision on what wo say. But
I w'ill neither be driven from some allow-
ance to Fashion as a symbolic institution,
nor from the belief that love is the basis
of courtesy. We must obtain that, if wa
can; but by all means we must affirm
this. Life owes much of its spirit to these
sharp contrasts. Fashion which affects
to be honour, is often, in ail men’s ex*
perience, only a ball-room code. Yet, so
long as it is the highest circle, in the ima-
gination 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 any^
thing preposterous ; and the respect which
these mysteries inspire in the most rude
and sylvan characters, and the curiosity
with which details of high life are read,
betray the universality of the love of cul-
tivated manners. I know that a comic dis-
parity would be felt, if vve should enter the
acknowledged ‘‘first circles,” and apply
these terrific standards of justice, beauty,
and benefit to the individuals actually
found there. Monarchs and heroes, sages
and lovers, these gallants are not. Fashion
has many classes and many rules of pro-
bation and admission ; and not the bi.st
alone. There is not only the right of con-
quest, which genius pretends — the indi-
vidual, demonstrating his natural aris«
tocracy best of the best ; but less claims
will pass for the time ; for Fashion loves
lions, and points, like Circe, to her horned
company. This gentleman in this after-
noon arrived from Denmark ; and that is
my Lord Ride, who came yesterday from
Bagdat; here is Captain Friesco, from
Cape Turnagain; and Captain Symmes,
from the interior of the earth ; and Mon-
sieur Jovaire, who came down this mora«
MANNERS,
U7
mg ih a balloda; Mr. Hobnail, tha re-
former ; and Reverend Jul Bat, who has
converted tha whole torrid zone in his
Sunday school ; and Signor Torre del
Greco, who extinguished Vesuvius by
pouring into it the Bay of Naples; Spahi,
the Persian ambassador ; and Tul Wil
Shan, the exiled nabob of Nepaul, whose
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 cierisy, wins its way up into these
places, and gets represented here, some-
what 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,
aiid perfumed, and dined, and introduced,
and properly grounded in all the bio-
graphy, and politics, and anecdotes of the j
boudoirs. i
Yet these fineries may have grace and
wit. Let there be grotesque sculpture
about the gates and oflices of temples.
Let the creed and commandments even
have the saucy homage of parody. The
forms of politeness universally express
benevolence in superlative degrees. What
if they are in the mouths of selfish men,
and used as means of selfishness ? What
if the false gentleman almost bows the true
out of the world ? What if the false gen-
tleman contrives so to address his com-
panion, as civilly to exclude all others
from his discourse, and also to make them
feel excluded ? Realservice 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 unin-
telligible to the present age. “ Here lies
Sir Jenkin Grout, who loved his friend,
and persuaded his enemy : what his mouth
ate, his hand paid for : what his servants
robbed, he restored : if a woman gave him
pleasure, he supported her in pain : he
never forgot his children ; and whoso
touched his finger, drew after it his whole
body.” Even the line of heroes is not
utterly extinct. There is still ever some
admirable person in plain clothes, stand-
ing on the wharf, who jumps in to rescue
a drowning man ; there is still some ab-
surd inventor of charities : some guide
and comforter of runaway slaves; some
friend of Poland; some Philhellene ; some
Canatic who plants shade-trees for the
second and ihifd 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 tha
favours of fortune, and impatiently casting
them on other shoulders. And these are
the centres of society, on which it returna
for fresh impulses. These are the creators
of Fashion, which is an attempt to orga-
nise beauty of behaviour. The beauti-
ful and the generous are, in theory, the
doctors and apostles of this church:
Scipio, and the Cid, and Sir Philip Sidney,
and Washington, and every pure and
valiant heart, who worshipped }3eauty by
word and by deed. The persons who con-
stitute the natural aristocracy, are not
found in the actual aristocracy, or, only
on its edge ; as the chemical energy of tha
spectrum is found to be greatest just out-
side of the spectrum. Yet that is the in-
firmity of the seneschals, wlio do not know
their sovereign, when he appears. The
theory of society supposes the existence
and sovereignty of these. It divines afar
off their coming. It says with the elder
gods—
“ As Heaven and Earth are fairer far
Than Chac's and blank Darkness, though
onco chiefs ;
And as we show beyond that Heaven and
Earth,
In form and shape compact and beautiful ;
So, on our heels a fresh perfection treads;
A power, more strong in beauty, born of us,
And fated to excel us, as we pass
In glory that old Darkness ;
■ for, his the eternal law,
That first in beauty shall be first in might.”
Therefore, within the ethical circle of
good society, there is a narrower and
higher circle, concentration of its light,
and flower of courtesy, to which there is
always a tacit appeal of pride and refer-
ence, as to its inner and imperial court,
the parliament of love and chivalry. And
this is constituted of those persons in
whom heroic dispositions are native, with
the love of beauty, the delight in society,
and the power to embellish the passing
day. If the individuals who compose tha
purest circles of aristocracy in Europe,
the guarded blood of centuries, should
pass in review, in such manner as that wa
could, at leisure, and critically inspect
their behaviour, we might find no gentle^
man, and no lady ; for, although excellent
specimens of courtesy and high-breeding
would gratify ns in the assemblage, in tha
particulars we should detect ofiifnce.
Because, elegance comes of no breeding#
ESSAYS.
xsS
but of birth. There must be romance of
character, or the most fastidious ex-
clusion of impertinences will not avail. It
must be genius which takes that direction :
it must not be courteous, but courtesy.
High behaviour is as rare in fiction as it
is in fact. Scott is praised for the fidelity
with which he painted the demeanour and
conversation of the superior classes. Cer-
tainly, kings and queens, nobles and great
ladies, had some right to complain of the
absurdity that had been put in their
mouths, before the days of Waverley ; but
neither does Scott’s dialogue bear criti-
cism. 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 Shakespeare alone, the speakers do
not strut and bridle, the dialogue is easily
great, and he adds to so many titles that
of being the best-bred man in England,
and in Christendom. Once or twice in a
lifetime we are permitted to enjoy the
charm of noble manners, in the presence
of a man or woman who have no bar in
their nature, but whose cliaracter eman-
ates freely in their word and gesture. A
beautiful form is better than a beautiful
face ; a beautiful behaviour is better than
a beautiful form : it gives a higher plea-
sure than statues or pictures ; it is the
finest of the fine arts. A man is but a
little thing in the midst of the objects of
nature, yet, by the moral quality radiating
from his countenance, he may abolish all
considerations of magnitude, and in his
manners equal the majesty of the world.
I have seen an individual, whose manners,
though wholly within the conventions of
elegant society, were never learned there,
but were original and commanding, and
held out protection and prosperity ; one
who did not need the aid of a court-suit,
but carried the holiday in his eye ; who
exhilarated the fancy by flinging wide the
doors of new modes of existence; who
shook off the captivity of etiquette, with
happy, spirited bearing, 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 public chambers, are the places where
Man executes his will ; let him yield or
divine the sceptre at the door of the
house. Woman, with her instinct of be-
haviour, instantly detects in man a love
of trifles, any coldness or imbecility, or,
in sh^rt, 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. 1
esteem it a chief felicity of this country,
that it excels in women. A certain awk-
ward consciousness of inferiority in the
men, may give rise to the new chivalry in
behalf of Woman’s Rights. Certainly,
let her be as much better placed in the
laws and in social forms, as the most
zealous reformer can ask, but I confide so
entirely in her inspiring and musical
nature, that I believe only herself can
show us how she can be served. The
wonderful generosity of her sentiments
raises her at times into heroical and god-
like regions, and verifies the pictures of
Minerva, Juno, or Polymnia; and, by the
firmness with which she treads her up-
ward path, she convinces the coarsest cal-
culators 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 cour-
tesy ; whjo 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 re-
serve vanished, and left us at large ; we
were children playing with children in a
wide field of flowers. Steep us, wo cried,
in these influences, for days, for weeks,
and wo shall be sunny poets, and will
write out in many-coloured words the
romance that you are. What Hafiz or
Firdousi was it who said of his Persian
Lilia, She was an elemental force, and
astonished me by her amount of life, when
I saw her day after day radiating, every
instant, redundant joy and grace on all
around her. She was a solvent powerful
to reconcile all heterogeneous persons
into one society : like air or water, an
element of such a great range of affinities,
that it combines readily with a thousand
substances. Where she is present, all
others will be more than they are wont.
She was a unit and whole, so that what’
soever she did became her. She had too
much sympi'.thy and desire to please, than
that you could say, her manners were
marked with dignity, yet no princess
could surpass her clear and erect de*
meanour 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.
MANNERS.
xt9
For, though the bias of her nature was
not to thought, but to sympathy, yet was
she so perfect in her own nature, as to
meet intellectual persons by the fulness
of her heart, warming them by her senti-
ments. believing, as she did, that by
dealing nobly with all, all would show
themselves noble.
I know that this Byzantine pile of
chivalry or Fashion, which seems so fair
and picturesque to those who look at the
contemporary facts for science or for en-
tertainment, 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
honours and privileges. They have yet
to learn that its seeming grandeur is
shadowy and relative ; it is great by their
allowance ; its proudest gates will fly open
at the approach of their courage and virtue.
For the present distress, however, of those
who are predisposed to suffer from the
tyrannies of this caprice, there are easy
remedies. To remove your residence a
a couple of miles, or at most four, will
commonly relieve the most extreme sus-
ceptibility. For the advantages which
fashion values are plants which thrive in
very confined localities, in a few streets,
namely. Out of tliis precinct they go for
nothing : are of no use in the farm, in the
forest, in the market, in w^ar, in the nup-
tial society, in the literary or scientific
circle, at sea, in friendship, in the heaven
of thought or virtue.
But wQ have lingered long enough in
these painted courts. The worth of the
thing signified must vindicate our taste
for the emblem. Everything that is called
fashion and courtesy humbles itself before
the cause and fountain of honour, creator
of titles and dignities, namely, the heart
of love. This is the royal blood, this the
fire, which, in all countries and contingen-
cies will work after its kind, and conquer
and expand all that approaches it This
gives new meanings to every fact. This im-
overishes the rich, suffering no grandeur
ut its own. What is rich ? Are you
rich enough to help anybody ? to succour
the unfashionable and eccentric ; rich
enough to make the Canadian in his
wagon, the itinerant with his consul’s
paper which commends him “ To the
charitable,” the swarthy Italian with his
few broken words of English, the lame
pauper hunted by overseers from town to
town, even the poor insane and besotted
wreck of man or woman, fed the noble
exception of your presence and your
house from the general bleakness and
stoniness ; to make such feel that they
were greeted with a voice which made
them both remember and hope ? What
is vulgar, but to refuse the claim on acute
and conclusive reasons ? What is gentle,
but to allow it and give their heart and
yours one holiday from the national cau-
tion ? 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 der-
vishes, yet was there never a poor out-
cast, eccentric, or insane man, some fool
who had cut off his beard, or who had
been mutilated under a vow, or had a pet
madness in his brain, but fled at once to
him — that great heart lay there so sunny
and hospitable in the centre of the
country — that it seemed as if the instinct
of all sufferers drew them to his side.
And the madness which he harboured, he
did not share. Is not this to be ricn ? th^
only to be rightly rich ?
But I shall hear without pain, that I
play the courtier very ill, and talk of that
which I do not well understand. It is
easy to see, that what is called by dis*
tinction society and fashion, has good laws
as well as bad, has much that is necessary,
and much that is absurd. Too good for
banning, and too bad for blessing, it re-
minds us of a tradition of the pagan my-
thology, in an attempt to settle its cha-
racter. “ I overheard Jove, one day,” said
Silenus, ” talking of destroying the earth;
he said, it had failed ; they were all rogues
and vixens, who went from bad to worse,
as fast as the days succeeded each other.
Minerva said, she hoped not; they were
only ridiculous little creatures, with this
odd circumstance, that they had a blur, or
indeterminate aspect, seen far or seen
near ; if you called them bad, they would
appear so ; if you called them good, they
would appear so ; and there was no one
person or action among them, which
would not puzzle her owl, much more all
Olympus, to know whether it was funda*'
mentally bad or good,”
ess AYS.
130
GIFTS.
Giftf3 cf one who loved mo,
‘Tvvas high time they came;
When he ceased to love me,
Time they stopped for shame.
It is said that the world is in a state of
bankruptcy, that the world ov/es the world
more than the world can pay, and ought
to go into chancery, and be sold. I do not j
think this general insolvency, which in-
volves in some sort all the population, to }
be the reason of the difficulty experienced
at Christmas and New Year, and other
times, in bestowing gifts ; since it is al-
ways so pleasant to be generous, though
very vexatious to pay debts. But the
impediment lies in the choosing. If, at
any time, it comes into my head that a
present is due from me to somebody, I am
puzzled what to give, until the opportunity
IS gone. Flowers and fruits are always fit
presents; flowers, because they are a
proud assertion that a ray of beauty out-
values all the utilities of the world. These
gay natures contrast with the somev/hat
stern countenance of ordinary nature ;
they are like music heard out of a work-
house. Nature does not cocker us : we
are children, not pets : she is not fond :
everything is dealt to us without fear or
favour, after severe universal laws. Yet |
these delicate flowers look like the frolic
and interference of love and beauty. Men
used to tell us that we love flattery, even
though we are not deceived by it, because
it shows that we are of importance enough
to be courted. Something like that plea- j
sure the flowers give us : what am I to
whom these sweet hints are addressed ?
Fruits are acceptable gifts, because they
are the flower of commodities, and admit
of fantastic values being attached to them.
If a man should send to me to come ft
hundred miles to visit him, and should set
before me a basket of fine summer fruit, I
should think there v/as some proportion
between the labour and the reward.
For common gifts, necessity makes per-
tinences and beauty every day, and one is
glad when an imperative leaves him no
option, since if the man at the door have
no shoes, you have not to consider whether
you could procure him a paint-box. And
as it is always pleasing to see a man eat
bread, or drink water, in the house or out
of doors, so it is always a great satisfaction
|o supply these first wants. Necessity does
everything well, In our coRditicn of ua^
versal dependence, it seems heroic to let
the petitioner be the judge of his necessity,
and to give all that is asked, though at
great inconvenience. If it be a fantastic
desire, it is better to leave to others the
oflice of punishing him. I can think of
many parts I should prefer playing to that
of the B'uries. Next to things of necessity,
the rule for a gift, which one of my friends
prescribed is, that we might convey to
some person that which properly belonged
to his character, and was easily associated
with him in thought. But our tokens of
compliment and love are for the most part
barbarous. Rings and other jewels are
not gifts, but apologies for gifts. The
only gift is a portion of thyself. Thou
must bleed for me. Therefore the poet
brings his poem ; the shepherd, his lamb ;
the farmer, corn; the miner, a gem ; the
sailor, coral and shells; the painter, his
picture; the girl, a handkerchief of her
own sewing. This is right and pleasing,
for it restores society in so far to the
primary basis, when a man’s biography is
conveyed in his gift, and every man’s
wealth is an index of his merit. But it is
a cold, lifeless business when you go to the
shops to buy me something, which does
not represent your life and talent, but a
goldsmith’s. This is fit for kings, and rich
men who represent kings, and a false state
of property, to make presents of gold and
silver stuffs, as a kind of symbolical sin-
offering, or payment of black mail.
The law of benefits is a difficult channel,
which requires careful sailing, or rude
boats. It is not the office of a man to
receive gifts. How dare you give them ?
We wish to be self-sustained. We do not
quite forgive a giver. The hand that feeds
us is in some danger of being bitten. We
can receive anything from love, for that is
a way of receiving it from ourselves ; but
not from anyone who assumes to bestow.
We sometimes hate the meat which v/e
eat, because there seems something cf
degrading dependence in living by it.
“ Brother, if Jove to thee a present make,
Be sure that from his hands thou nothing take.**
We ask the whole. Nothing less will
content us. We arraign society, if it do
not give u»— besides earth and fire and
NATURE,
water — opportunity, love, reverence, and
objects of veneration.
He is a good man who can receive a gift
well. We are either glad or sorry at a
gift, and both emotions are unbecoming.
Some violence, I think, is done, some de-
gradation borne, when I rejoice or
vrieve at a gift, I am sorry when my in-
dependence is invaded, or when a gift
comes from such as do not know my
spirit, and so the act is not supported ;
and if the gift pleases me overmuch, then
I should be ashamed that the donor
should read my heart, and see that I love
his commodity, and not him. The gift,
to be true, must be the flowing of the giver
unto me, correspondent to my flowing
unto him. When the v/aters 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, wlien all your oil
and wine is mine, which belief of mine
this gift seems to deny? Hence the fit-
ness of beautiful, not useful things for
gifts. This giving is flat usurpation, and
therefore when the beneficiary is ungrate-
ful, as all beneficiaries hate all Timons,
cot at all considering tlie value of the
gift, but looking back to the greater store
it was taken from, I rather sympatliise
with the beneficiary, than with the anger
of my lord Timon. Tor, the expectation
of gratitude is mean, and is continually
punished by tha total insensibility of the
obliged person. It is a great happiness
to get off without injury and heart-burning,
/rom one who has had the ill luck to be
served by you. U is a very onerous busi-
ness, 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 flat-
ter your benefactors.”
The reason of these discords I conceive
to be, that there is no commensurability
13I
j between a man and any gift. You can-
not give anything to a magnanimous
person. After you have served him, he at
once puts you in debt by his magnanimity.
The service a man renders his friend isr
trivial and selfish, compared with the ser-
vice he knows his friend stood in readi-
ness 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
I action on each other, good as well as evil,
I is so incidental and at random, that wo
can seldom hear the acknowledgments of
any person who would thank us for a
benefit, without some shame and humilia-
tion. We can rarely strike a direct stroke,
but must be content with an oblique one ;
we seldom have the satisfaction of yield-
ing a direct benefit, which is directly
received. But rectitude scatters favours
on every side without knowing it, and re-
ceives with wonder the thanks of all people.
I fear to breathe any treason against the
majesty of love, which is the genius and
god of gifts, and to whom we must not
affect to prescribe. Let him give kingdoms
or flower-leaves indifferently. There are
persons, from whom we always expect
fairy-tokens ; let us not cease to expect
them. This is prerogative, and not to be
limited by our municipal rules. For the
rest, I like to see that we cannot be bought
and sold. The best of hospitality and of
generosity is also not in the will, but in
fate. I find that I am not much to you ;
you do not need me ; you do not feel me ;
then am I thrust out of doors, though you
proffer me house and lands. No services
are of any value, but only likeness.
When I have attempted to join myself to
others by services, it proved an intellectual
trick, — no more. They eat your service
like apples, and leave you out. But love
them, and they feel you, and delight in
you all the time.
NATURE.
The rounded world is fair to se«i
Nine times folded in mystery :
Though hauled seers c^umot impart
The secret of its laboiuiug heart,
Throb thine with Nature’s throbbing breast,
And all is clear from east to west.
Spirit that lurks each form within
Beckons to spirit of its kin ;
Self-kindled every atom glows,
And hints the future which it owes.
There are days which occur in this
climate, at almost any season of the year,
wherein the world reaches its perfection,
when the air, the heavenly bodies, and the
earth make a harmony, as if Nature would
indulge her offspring; when, in these bleak
upper sides of the planet, nothing is to
desire that we have heard of the happiest
latitudes, and we bask in the shining hourf
ESSAYS.
132
of Florida and Cuba ; when everything that
has life gives signs of satisfaction, and the
cattle that lie on the ground seem to have
great and tranquil thoughts. These hal-
cyons may be looked for with a little more
assurance in that pure October weather
which we distinguish by the name of the
Indian summer. The day, immeasurably
long, sleeps over the broad hills and warm
wide fields. To have lived through all its
sunny hours seems longevity enough. The
solitary places do not seem quite lonely.
At the gates of the forest, the surprised
man of the world is forced to leave his
city estimates of great and small, wise
and foolish. The knapsack of custom
falls off his back with the first step he
makes into these precincts. Here is sanc-
tity which shames our religions, and j
reality which discredits our heroes. Here
we find Nature to be the circumstance
which dwarfs every other circumstance,
and judges like a god all men that come
to her. We have crept out of our close
and crowded houses into the night and
morning, and we see what majestic beau-
ties daily wrap us in their bosom. How
willingly we would escape the barriers
which render them comparatively im-
potent, escape the sophistication and
second thought, and suffer nature to en-
trance us. The tempered light of the
woods is like a perpetual morning, and is
stimulating and heroic. The anciently
reported spells of these places creep on
us. The stems of pines, hemlocks, and
oaks almost gleam like iron on the excited
eye. The incommunicable trees begin to
persuade us to live with them, and quit
our life of solemn trifles. Here no history,
or church, or state is interpolated on the
divine sky and the immortal year. How
easily we might walk onward into the
opening landscape, absorbed by new pic-
tures, and by thoughts fast succeeding
each other, until by degrees the recol-
lection of home was crowded out of the
mind, all memory obliterated by the
tyranny of tlie present, and we were led
in triumph by nature.
These enchantments are medicinal, they
sober and heal us. These are plain plea-
sures, kindly and native to us. Wo come
to our own, and make friends with matter,
which'the ambitious chatter of the schools
would persuade us to despise. We never
can part with it ; the mind loves its old
home; as water to our thirst, co is the
rock, the ground, to our eyes, and hands,
and fef.t. It is firm water : it is cold flame :
what health, what affinity f Ftct an old
friend, ever like a dear friend ar»d brothef
when we chat affectedly with strangers,
comes in this honest face, and takes a
grave liberty with us, and shames us out
of our nonsense. Cities give not the
human senses room enough, We go out
daily and nightly to feed the eyes on the
horizon, and require so much scope, just
as we need water for our bath. There are
all degrees of natural influence, from these
quarantine powers of nature, up to her
dearest and gravest ministrations to ths
imagination and the soul. There is tho
bucket of cold water from the spring, the
wood-fire to which the chilled traveller
rushes for safety, — and there is the sublime
moral of autumn and of noon. We nestle
in nature, and draw our living as parasites
from her roots and grains, and we receive
glances from the heavenly bodies, which
call us to solitude, and foretell the remot-
est future. The blue zenith is the point
in which romance and reality meet. I
think, if we should be rapt away into ah
that we dream of heaven, and should con-
verse 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 snow-
! flakes in a still air, preserving to eacK
crystal its perfect form: the blowing of
sleet over a wide sheet of water, and over
plains ; the waving rye-field : the mimic
waving of acres of hoiistonia, whose
innumerat-Ia florets whiten and ripple
before the eye ; the reflections of trees
and flowers in glassy lakes ; the musical
steaming odorous south wind, which
converts all trees to 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 sitting-room,
— these are the music and pictures of the
most ancient religion. My house stands
in low land, with limited outlook, and on
the skirt of the village. But I go with my
friend to the shore of our little river, and
with one stroke of the paddle, I leave the
village politics and personalities, yes, and
the world of villages and personalities
behind, and pass into a delicate realm of
sunset and moonlight, too bright almost
for spotted man to enter without novitiate
and probation. We penetrate bodily this
incredible beauty ; we dip our hands in
this painted element : our eyes are bathed
in these lights and forms. A holiday, a
villeggiatura, a royal revel, the proudest,
most heart-rejoicing festival that vajoui
NATURE.
and beauty, power and taste, ever decked
and enjoyed, establishes itself on the
instant. These sunset clouds, these deli-
cately emerging stars, with their private
and ineffable glances, signify it and proffer
it, I am taught the poorness of our
invention, the ugliness of towns and
palaces. Art and luxury have early
learned that they must work as enhance-
ment and sequel to this original beauty.
I am overinstructed for my return.
Henceforth I shall be hard to please.
I cannot go back to the 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
bow to come to 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 pre-
serves, 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 dan-
gerous auxiliaries. These bribe and
invite; not kings, not palaces, not men,
not women, but these tender and poetic
stars, eloquent and secret promises. We
heard what the rich man said , we knew of
his villa, his grove, his wine, and his
company, but the provocation and point
of the invitation came out of these be-
guiling stars. In their soft glances, I see
what men strove to realise in some
Versailles, or Paphos, or Ctesiphon.
Indeed, it is the magical lights of the
horizon, and the blue sky for the back-
ground, which save all our works of art,
which were otherwise bawbles. When
the rich tax the poor with servility and
obsequiousness, they should consider the
effect of men reputed tD be the possessors
of nature, on imaginative minds. Ah I if
the rich were rich as the poor fancy
riches ! A boy hears a military band play
on the field at night, and he has kings and
queens, and famous chivalry palpably
before him. He hears the echoes of a
horn in a hill country, in the Notch
Mountains, for example, which converts
the mountains into an ^Eolian harp, and
this supernatural tiralira restores to him
the Dorian mythology, Apollo, Diana, and
all divine hunters and huntresses. Can
a musical note be so loltyi so haughtily
133
beautiful I To the poor young ^oct, thus
fabulous is his picture of society ; he is
loyal ; he respects the rich ; they are rich
for the sake of his imagination ; how poor
[ his fancy would be, if they were not rich !
! That they have some high-fenced ^ove,
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 water-
ing-places, and to distant cities, are the
groundwork from which he has delineated
estates of romance, compared with which
their actual possessions are shanties and
paddocks. The muse herself betrays her
son, and enhances the gifts of wealth and
well-born beauty, by a radiation out of the
air, and clouds, and forests that skirts the
road, — a certain haughty favour, 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 astonish-
ment is the meeting of the sky and the
earth, and that is seen from the first
hillock as well as from the top of the
Alleghanies. The stars at night stoop
down over the brownest, homeliest com-
mon, with all the spiritual magnificence
which they shed on the Campagna, or on
the marble deserts of Egypt. The unrolled
clouds and the colours of morning and
evening w^ll transfigure maples and alders.
The difference between landscape and
landscape is small, but there is great
difference in the beholders. There is
nothing so wonderful in any particular
landscape, as the necessity of being
beautiful under which every landscape lies.
Nature cannot be surprised in undress.
Beauty breaks in everywhere.
But it is very easy to outrun the sym-
pathy of readers on this topic, which
Schoolmen called natura naUirata, 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 sus-
ceptible person does not like to indulge
his tastes in this kind, without the apology
of some trivial necessity ; he goes to sea
a wood-lot, or to look at the crops, or to
fetch a plant or a mineral from a rimota
locality, or ha carries a fowlisg-pieca or c
ESSAYS.
*34
fishing-rofi. I suppose this shame must
have a good reason. A dilettantism in
nature is barren and unworthy. The fop
of fields is no better than his brother of
Broadway. Men are naturally hunters and
inquisitive of wood-craft, and I suppose
that such a gazetteer as wood-cutters and
Indians should furnish facts for, would
take place in the most sumptuous drawing-
rooms of all the “ Wreaths ” and “ Flora’s
chaplets’' of the bookshops; yet ordi-
narily, whether we are too clumsy for so
subtle a topic, or from whatever cause, as
soon as men begin to write on nature, they
fall into euphuism. Frivolity is a most un-
fit tribute to Pan, who ought to be repre-
sented in the mythology as the most con-
tinent of gods. I would not be frivolous
before the admirable reserve and prudence
of time, yet f cannot renounce the right of
returning often to this old topic. The
multitude of false churches accredits the
true religion. Literature, poetry, science,
are the homage of man to this unfathomcd
secret, concerning which no sane man can
affect an indifference or incuriosity. Na-
ture is loved by v/hat is best in us. It is
loved as the city of God, although, or
ratlier because there is no citizen. The
sunset is unlike anything that is under-
neath 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 thci'e
were good men, there would never be this
rapture in nature. If the king is in the
palace, nobody looks at the walls. It is
v.'hen 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 com-
plain of the sickly separation of the beauty
of nature from the thing to be done, must
consider that our hunting of the pictu-
resque is inseparable from our protest
against false society. Man is fallen;
nature is erect and serves as a differential
thermometer, detecting the presence or
absence of the divine sentiment in man.
By fault of our dulness and selfishness we
are looking up to nature, but when v/e are
convalescent, nature will look up to us.
We see the foaming brook with compunc-
tion; if our own life flowed with the right
energy, we should shame the brook. The
Stream of zeal sparkles with real fire, and
•sot with reflex rays of sun and moon.
Nature may be as selfishly studied as
trade. Astronomy to the selfish becomes
asUpKgy ; psychglegy, mesmerism (witli
intent to show where out spoons are gone)t
and anatomy and physiology b- comet
phrenology and palmistry.
But taking timely warning, and leaving
many things unsaid on this topic, let us
not longer omit our homage to tlie Efficient
Nature, natiira natiirans, tlie quick cause,
before which all forms flee as the driven
snows, itself secret, its works driven be-»
fore it in flocks and multitudes (as the
ancients represented nature by Proteus, a
shepherd), and in undescribable variety.
It publishes itself in creatures, reaching
from particles and spicula, through trans-
formation on transformation to the highest
symmetries, arriving at consummate re-
sults without a shock or a leap. A little
heat, that is, a little motion, is all that
differences the brdd, dazzling white, and
deadly cold poles of the earth from the
prolific tropical climates. All changes pass
without violence, by reason of the two
cardinal conditions of boundless space and
boundless time. Geology has initiated us
into the secularity of nature, and taught u,«
to disuse our dame-scliool measures, and
exchange our Mosaic and Ptolemaic
schemes for her large style. Wo knew
nothing rightly, for want of perspective.
Now we learn what patient periods must
round themselves before the rock is formed,
then before the rock is broken, and the
first lichen race has disintegrated the
thinnest external plate into soil, and
opened the door for the remote Flora,
Fauna, Ceres, and Pomona to come in.
How far off yet is the trilobite ! how far
the quadruped ! how inconceivably remote
is man ! All duly arrive, and then race
after race of men. It is a long way from
granite to the oyster ; farther yet to Plato,
and the preaching of the immortality of
the soul. Yet all must come, as surely as
the first atom has two sides.
Motion or change, and identity or rest,
are the first and second secrets of nature :
Motion and Rest. The whole code of her
laws may be written on the thumbnail, or
the signet of a ring. The whirling bubble
on the surface of a brook admits us to the
secret of the mechanics of the sky. Every
shell on the beach is a key to it. A little
water made to rotate in a cup explains the
formation of the simpler shells; the
addition of matter from year to year, ar-
rives at last at the most complex forms ;
and yet so poor is nature with all her craft,
that, from the beginning to the end of the
universe, she has but jone stuff, — but one
stuff with its two ends, to serve up all her
drgam-liko variety. Compound it how sho
NATURE,
wiil, stat, sand, fire, water, tree, man, it is
still one stuff, and betrays the same pro-
periies.
Nature is always consistent, though she
feigns to contravene her own laws. She
keepii her laws, and seems to transcend
them. She arms and equips an animal
to find its place and living in the earth,
and, at the same time, she arms and
equips another animal to destroy it. Space
exists to divide creatures ; but by clothing
the sides of a bird with a fcw feathers, she
gives him a petty omnipresence. The
direction is for ever onward, but the artist
still goes back for materials, and begins
again with the first elements on the most
advanced stage ; otherwise, all goes to
ruin. If we look at her work, we seem to
catch a glance of a system in transition.
Plants are the young of the world, vessels
of health and vigour ; but they grope ever
upward towards consciousness ; the trees
are imperfect men, and seem to bemoan
their imprisonment, rooted in the ground.
The animal is the novice and probationer
of a more advanced order. The men,
though young, having tasted the first drop
from the cup of thought, are already dissi-
pated ; the maples and ferns are still un-
corrupt ; yet no doubt, when they come
\o consciousness, they too will curse and
swear. Flowers so strictly belong to
youth, that we adult men soon come to
feel, that their beautiful generations con-
tera 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 ac-
cording to the skill of the eye, from any
one object the parts and properties of any
otlier may be predicteil. If we had eyes
to see it, a bit of stone from the city wall
would certify us of tlie necessity that man
must exist, as readily as the city. That
identity makes us all owe, and reduces to
nothing great intervals on our customary
scale. We talk of deviations from natural
life, as if artificial life were not also
natural. The smoothest curled courtier
in the boudoirs of a palace has an animal
nature, rude and aboriginal as a white
bear, omnipotent to its own ends, and is
directly related, there amid essences
and billetsdoux, to Himmaleh mountain-
chains, and ibe axis of the globe. If we
consider how much we are nature’s, we
need not be superstitious about towns, as
if that terrific or benefic force did not find
us there also, and fashion cities. Nature,
wh9 madQ xna^OQ, madQ the bouse*
13S
We may easily hear too much of rural in-
fluences. The cool disengaged air of
natural objects, makes them enviable to
us, chafed and irritable creatures v/ith 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 (fcrough all
the surprises and contrasts of the piece,
I and characterises 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 recognising
laws which bind the farthest regions of
nature : moon, plant, gas, crystal, are con-
crete geometry and numbers. Common
sense knows its own, and recognises the
fact at first sight in chemical experiment.
The common sense of Franklin, Dalton,
Davy, and Black, is the same common
sense which made the arrangements which
now it discovers.
If the identity expresses organised rest,
the counter action runs also into organisa-
tion. The astronomers said: “Give us
matter, and a little motion, and we will
construct the universe. It is not enough
that we should have matter, we must also
have a single impulse, one shove to launch
the mass, and generate the harmony of
the centrifugal and centripetal forces.
Once heave the ball from the hand, and
we can show how all this mighty order
grew.” — “ A very unreasonable postulate,”
said the metaphysicians, “ and a plain
begging of the question. Could you not
prevail to know the genesis of projection,
as well as the continuation of it ? ” Nature,
meanwhile, had not waited for the discus-
sion, but, right or wrong, bestowed the
impulse, and the balls rolled. It was no
great affair, a mere push, but the astron-
omers were right in making much of it, for
there is no end to the consequences of tha
act. That famous aboriginal push propa-
gates itself through all the balls of tha
system, and through every atom of every
ball, through all the races of crea-
tures, and through the history and per-
formances of every individual. Exaggera-
tion is in the course of things. I|atur«
Giends no creat\ire, 00 man into the woxi^
K
ESSAYS,
136
without adding a small excess of his
proper quality. Given the planet, it is
still necessary to add the impulse ; so, to
every creature nature added a little vio-
lence of direction in its proper path, a
shove to put it on its w^ay; in every in-
stance, a slight generosity, a drop too
much. Without electricity the air would
rot, and without this violence of direction,
which men and w'omen have, without a
spice of bigot and fanatic, no excitement,
no efficiency. We aim above the mark,
to hit the mark. Every act hath some
falsehood of exaggeration in it. And when
now and then comes along some sad,
sharp-eyed man, who sees how paltry a
game is played ,and refuses to play, but
blabs the secret ; — how then ? is the bird
flown ? Oh no, the wary Nature sends a
new troop of fairer forms, of lordlier
youths, with a little more excess of direc-
tion to hold them fast to their several
aim ; makes them a little wrong-headed
in that direction in which they are rightest,
and on goes the game again with new
whirl, for a generation or two more. The
child with his sweet pranks, the fool of
his senses, commanded by every sight
and sound, without any power to compare
and rank his sensations, abandoned to a
whistle or a painted chip, to a lead
dragoon, or a gingerbread-dog, individual-
izing 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 Nature has answered her
purpose with the curly, dimpled lunatic.
She has tasked every faculty, and has
secured the symmetrical growth of the
bodily frame, by all these attitudes and
exertions — an end of the first importance,
which could not be trusted to any care
less perfect than her own. This glitter,
this opaline lustre plays round the top of
every toy to his eye, to insure his fidelity,
and he *s 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 savoury and the
appetite is keen. The vegetable life does
not content itself with casting from the
flower or the tree a single seed, but it fills
the air and earth with a prodigality of
seeds, that, if thousands perish, thousands
may plant themselves, that hundreds may
come up, that tens may live to maturity,
that, at least, one may replace the parent.
All feiings betray the same calculated
piofusion. The excess of fear with which
the animal frame is hedged round, shrink-*
ing from cold, starting at sight of a snake,
or at a sudden noise, protects us, through
a multitude of groundless alarms, from
some one real danger at last. The lover
seeks in marriage his private felicity and
perfection, with no prospective end ; and
nature hides in his happiness her own
end, namely, progeny, or the perpetuity
of the race.
But the craft with which the world is
made, runs also into the mind and cha-
racter of men. No man is quite sane ;
each has a vein of folly in his composition,
a slight determination of blood to the
head, to make sure of holding him hard
to some one point which nature had taken
to heart. Great causes are never tried on
their merits ; but the cause is reduced to
particulars to suit the size of the parti-
sans, and the contention is ever hottest
on minor matters. Not less remarkable
is the overfaith of each man in the im-
portance of what he has to do or say.
The poet, the prophet, has a higher value
for what he utters than any hearer, and
therefore it gets spoken. The strong,
self-complacent Luther declares with an
emphasis, not to be mistaken, that “ God
himself cannot do without v/ise men.”
Jacob Behmen and George Fox betray
their egotism in the pertinacity of their
controversial tracts, and James Naylor
once suffered himself to be worshipped as
the Christ. Each prophet comes pre-
sently to identify himself with his thought,
and to esteem his hat and shoes sacred.
However this may discredit such persons
with the judicious, it helps them with the
people, as it gives heat, pungency, and
publicity to their words. A similar ex-
perience 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 morn-
ing star ; he wets them with his tears :
they are sacred ; too good for the world,
and hardly yet to be shown to the dearest
friend. This is the man-child that is born
to the soul, and her life still circulates in
the babe. The umbilical cord has not
yet been cut. After some time has elapsed,
he begins to wish to admit his friend to
this hallowed experience, and with hesi-
tation, yet with firmness, exposes the
pages to his eye. Will they not burn hia
eyes ? The friend coldly turns them over,
and passes from tho writing to conversa*
NATURE. X37
tion with easy transition, which strikes all for a little conversation, high, clear,
the other party with astonishment and and spiritual I Could it not he had as well
vexation. He cannot suspect the writing by beggars on the highway ? No, all these
itself. Days and nights of fervid life, of things came from successive efforts of
communion with angels of darkness and these beggars to remove friction from the
of light, have engraved their shadowy wheels of life, and give opportunity,
characters on that tear-stained book. He Conversation, character, were the avowed
suspects the intelligence or the heart of ends ; wealth was good as it appeased
his friend. Is there then no friend ? He the animal cravings, cured the smoky
cannot yet credit that one may have im- chimney, silenced the creaking door,
pressive experience, and yet may not brought friends together in a v/arm and
know how to put his private fact into quiet room, and kept the children and the
literature ; and perhaps the discovery that dinner-table in a different apartment,
wisdom has other tongues and ministers Thought, virtue, beauty, were the ends *
than we, that though we should hold our but it was known that men of thought and
peace, the truth would not the less be virtue sometimes had the headache, or
spoken, might check injuriously the flames wet feet, or could lose good time whilst
of our zeal. A man can only speak, so the room was getting warm in winter days,
long as he does not feel his speech to be Unluckily, in the exertions necessary to
partial and inadequate. It is partial, but remove these inconveniences, the main
ho docs not see it to be so, whilst he attention has been diverted to this object ;
utters it. As soon as he is released from the old aims have been lost sight of, and
the instinctive and particular, and sees to remove friction has come to be the
its partiality, he shuts his mouth in dis- end. That is the ridicule of rich men, and
gust. For, no man can write anything, Boston, London, Vienna, and now the
who does not think that wliat he writes is governments generally of the world, are
for the time the history of the world : or cities and governments of the rich, and
do anything well, who does not esteem the masses axe not men, but poor men,
his work to be of importance. My work that is, men who would be rich ; this is
may be of none, but 1 must not think it of the ridicule of the class, that they arrive
cone, or I shall not do it with impunity. with pains and sweat and fury nowhere ;
In like manner, there is throughout na- when all is done, it is for nothing. They
ture something mocking, something are like one who has interrupted the con*
that leads us on and on, but arrives versation of accompany to make his speech,
nowhere, keeps no faith with us. All and now has forgotten what he went to
promise outruns the performance. We say. The appearance strikes the eye
live in a system of approximations, everywhere of an aimless society, of aim-
Every end is prospective of some other less nations. Were the ends of nature
end, which is also temporary ; a round so great and cogent, as to exact this im-
and final success nowhere. We are en- mense sacrifice of men ?
camped in nature, not domesticated. Quite analogous to the deceits in life.
Hunger and thirst lead us on to eat and there is, as might be expected, a similar
drink ; but bread and wine, mix and cook effect on the eye from the face of external
them how you will, leave us hungry and nature. There is in woods and waters a
thirsty, after the stomach is full. It is the certain enticement and flattery, together
same with all our arts and performances, with a failure to yield a present satisfac-
Our music, our poetry, our language tion. This disappointment is felt in every
itsedf, are not satisfactions, but sugges- landscape. I have seen the softness and
tions. The hunger for wealth, which beauty of the summer clouds floating
reduces the planet to a garden, fools the feathery overhead, enjoying, as it seemed,
eager pursuer. What is the end sought ? their height and privilege of motion,
Plainly to secure the ends of good sense whilst yet they appeared not so much tha
and beauty, from the intrusion of deformity drapery of this place and hour, as fore*
or vulgarity of any kind. But what an looking to some pavilions and gardens of
opcTose method ! What a train of means festivity beyond. It is an odd jealousy :
to secure a little conversation! This but the poet finds himself not near enough
palace of brick and stone, these servants, to his object. The pine-tree, the river,
this kitchen, these stables, horses and the bank of flowers before him, does not
equipage, this bank-stock, and file of seem to be nature. Nature is still flse-
mortgages ; trade to all the world, coun- where. This or this is but outskirt and
try-hourtf5 cottage by the water-side, far-off reflection and echo of the triumpli
ESSAYS.
that has passed by, and Is now at its glan-
cing splendor and heyday, perchance in
the neighbouring 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 love-
liness in the sunset ! But who can go
where they are, or lay his hand or plant
his foot thereon ? Off they fall from the
round world for ever and ever. It is the
same among the men and women, as
among the silent trees : always a referred
existence, an absence, never a presence
and satisfaction. Is it, that beauty can
never be grasped ? in persons and in land-
ucape is equally inaccessible ? The
accepted and betrothed lover has lost the
wildest charm of his maiden in her accep-
tance of him. She was heaven whilst he
pursued her as a star ; she cannot be
heaven if she stoops to such a one as he.
What shall we say of this omnipresent
appearance of that first projectile impulse,
of this flattery and balking of so many
well-meaning creatures ? Must we not
suppose somewhere in the universe a
slight treachery and derision? Are we
not engaged to a serious resentment of
this use that is made of us ? Are we
tickled trout, and fools of nature ? One
look at the face of heaven and earth lays
all petulance at rest, and soothes us to
wiser convictions. To the intelligent,
nature converts itself into a vast promise,
and will not be rashly explained. Her
secret is untold. Many and many an
QCdipus arrives; he has the whole mys-
tery teeming in his brain. Alas ! the same
sorcery has spoiled his skill ; no syllable
can he shape on his lips. Her mighty
orbit vaults like the fresh rainbow into the
deep, but no archangel’s wing was yet
strong enough to follow it, and report of
the return of the curve. But it also ap-
pears, that our actions are seconded and
disposed to greater conclusions than we
designed. We are escorted on every hand
through life by spiritual agents, and a
beneficent purpose lies in wait for us. We
cannot bandy words with nature, or deal
with her as we deal with persons. If we
measure our individual forces against
hers, we may easily feel as if we were
the sport of an insuperable destiny. But ,
ii, instead of identifying ourselves with
the work, we feel that the soul of the
workman streams through us, we shall
find'^he peace of the morning dwelling
$r$t i9 our hearts, the fathopi)ess
powers of gravity and chemistry, and, over
them, of life, pre-existing within us in
their highest form.
The uneasiness which the thought
our helplessness in the chain of causes
occasions us, results from looking too
much at one condition of nature, namely,
Motion. But the drag is never taken from
the wheel. Wherever the impulse exceeds,
the Rest or Identity insinuates its com-
pensation. All over the wide fields of earth
grows the prunella or self-heal. After
every foolish day we sleep off the fumes
and furies of its hours ; and though we
are always engaged with particulars and
often enslaved to them, we bring with us
to every experiment the innate universal
laws. These, while they exist in the mind
as ideas, stand around us in nature for
ever embodied, a present sanity to expose
and cure the insanity of men. Our servitude
to particulars 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 tljat by electro-
magnetism, your salad shall be grown
from the seed, whilst your fowl is roasting
for dinner ; it is a symbol of our modern
aims and endeavours— of our condensa-
tion and acceleration of objects; but no-
thing 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, however, wa
find our advantage, not less than in the
impulses. Let the victory fall where it
will, we are on that side. And the know-
ledge that we traverse the whole scale o(
b^iing, from the centre to the poles of
nature, and have some stake in every
possibility, lends that sublime lustre to
death which philosophy and religion have
too outwardly and literally striven to ex-
press in the popular doctrine of the im-
mortality of the soul. The reality is more
excellent than the report. Here is no ruin,
no discontinuity, no spent ball. The divine
circulations never rest nor linger. Nature
is the incarnation of a thought, and turns
to a thought again, as ice becomes water
and gas. The world is mind precipitated,
and the volatile essence is forever escaping
again into the state of free thought. Hence
the virtue and pungency of the influence
on the mind, of natural objects, whether
inorganic or organized. Man imprisoned,
man crystallized, man vegetative, speak*
to man impersonated. That power which
does not respect quantity, which make*
the whgle and ps^rtiefo ita equ?J
POLITICS.
DSl, 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, tt 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 cheer*
ful labour : we did not guess its essence,
until after a long time.
POLITICS.
Gold and iron are good
To buy iron and gold;
All earth’s fleece ami food
For their like are sold.
Hinted 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 Aniphion piled
Phmbus stablish must.
When the Muses nine
With the Virtues meet,
Find to their design
An Atlantic scat,
By green orchard boughs
Fended from the heat.
Where the statesman ploughs
Furrow for the wheat ;
When the Church is social worth,
When the state-house is the hearth,
Then the perieet State is come.
The republican at home.
t/ealing with the State, we ought to
remember that its institutions are not
aboriginal, though they existed before we
were born : that they are not superior to
the citizen : that every one of them was
once the act of a single man : every law
and usage was a man’s expedient to meet
a particular case : that they all are imita-
ble, all alterable ; we may make as good ;
we may make belter. Society is an illu-
sion to the young citizen. It lies before
him in rigid repose, with certain names,
men, and institutions, rooted like oak-
trees to the centre, round which all ar-
range themselves the best they can. But
the old statesman knows that society is
fluid ; there are no such roots and centres ;
but any particle may suddenly become
the centre of the movement, and compel
the system to gyrate round it, as every
man of strong will, like Pisistratus, or
Cromwell, does for a time, and every man
of truth, like Plato, or Paul, does forever.
But politics rest on necessary foundations,
and cannot be treated with levity. Re-
publics 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 tommerce, education,
and religion, may be voted in or out ; and
that any measure, though it were absurd
may be imposed on a people, if only you
can get sufficient voices to make it a law.
But the wise know that foolish legislation
is a rope of sand, which perishes in the
twdsting ; 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 pre-
vails, is the expression of what cultivation
exists in the population which permits it.
The law is only a memorandum. We are
superstitious, and esteem the statute
somewhat : so much life as it has in the
character of living men, is its force. The
statute stands there to say, yesterday
agreed so and so, but how feel ye thi»
article to-day ? Our statute is a currency,
which we stamp with our own portrait : it
soon becomes unrecognizable, and in pro-
cess of time will return to the mint. Na-
ture is not democratic, nor limited-monar-
chical, 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 intelli-
gence, the code is seen to be brute and
stammering. It speaks not articulately,
and must be made to. Meantime the
education of the general mind never stops.
The reveries of the true and simple are
prophetic. What the tender poetic youth
dreams, and prays, and paints to-day, but
shuns the ridicule of saying aloud, shall
presently be the resolutions of public
bodies, then shall be carried as grievance
and bill of rights through conflict and war.
and then shall be triumphant law and
establishment for a hundred years, until
it gives place, in turn, to new prayers and
pictures. The history of the State sketches
in coarse outline the progress of thought,
and follows at a distance the delicacy ^
culture and of aspiration, •
ESSAVS.
140
The theory of politics, which has pos-
sessed the mind of men, and which they
have expressed the best they could in their
laws and in their revolutions, considers
persons and property as the two objects
for whose protection government exists.
Of persons, all have equal rights, in virtue
of being identical in nature. This interest,
of course, with its whole power demands
a democracy. Whilst the rights of all as
persons are equal, in virtue of their access
to reason, their rights in property are very
unequal. One man owns his clothes, and
another owns a county. This accident,
depending, primarily, on the skill and
virtue of the parties, of which there is
every degree, and secondarily, on patri-
mony, falls unequally, and its rights, of
course, are unequal. Personal rights,
universally the same, demand a govern-
ment framed on the ratio of the census :
property demands a government framed
on the ratio of owners and of owning.
Laban, who has flocks and herds, wishes
them looked after by an officer on the
frontiers, lest the Midianites shall drive
them off, and pays a tax to that end.
Jacob has no flocks or herds, and no fear
of the Midianites, and pays no tax to the
officer. It seemed fit that Laban and
Jacob should have equal rights to elect
the officer who is to defend their persons,
but that Laban, and not Jacob, should
elect the officer who is to guard the sheep
and cattle. And, if question arise whether
additional officers or watch-towers 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 equit-
able community, than that property should
make the law for property, and persons
the law for persons.
But property passes through donation
or inheritance to tliose who do not create
it. Gift, in one case, makes it as really
the new owner’s, as labour made it the first
owner’s i in the other case, of patrimony,
the law makes an ownership, which will be
valid in each man’s view according to the
estimate which he sets on the public
tranquility.
It was not, however, found easy to em-
bodjrche readily admitted principler that
property should make law for property,
and persons for persons ; since persona
and property mixed themselves in every
transaction. At last it seemed settled, that
the rightful distinction was, that the
proprietors should have more elective
franchise than non-proprietors, on the
Spartan principle of “calling that which
is just, equal; not that which is equal,
just.”
That principle no longer looks so self-
evident as it appeared in former times,
partly, because doubts have arisen whether
too much weight had not been allowed in
the laws to property, and such a structure
given to our usages, as allowed the rich
to encroach on the poor, and to keep them
poor ; but mainly, because there is an in-
stinctive sense, however obscure and yet
inarticulate, that the whole constitution of
property, on its present tenures, is injuri-
ous, and its influence on persons deterior-
ating and degrading : that truly, the only
interest for the consideration of the State
is persons; that property will always
follow persons ; that the highest end of
government is the culture of men ; and if
men can be educated, the institutions will
share their improvement, and the moral
sentiment will write the law of the land.
If it be not easy to settle the equity of
this question, the peril is less when we
take note of our natural defences. We are
kept by better guards than the vigilance
of such magistrates as we commonly elect.
Society always consists, in greatest part,
of young and foolish persons. The old,
who have seen through the hypocrisy of
courts and statesmen, die, and leave no
wisdom to their sons. These believe their
own newspaper, as their fathers did at
their age. With such an ignorant and de-
ceivable majority. States would soon run
to ruin, but that there are limitations, be-
yond which the folly and ambition ot
governors cannot go. Things have their
laws, as well as men ; and things refuse to
be trifled with. Property will be protected.
Corn will not grow, unless it is planted
and manured ; but the farmer will not
plant or hoe it, unless the chances are a
hundred to one that he will cut and har-
vest 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
I will always attract and resist other
I matter, by the full virtue of one pound
POLITICS, 141
weight ; and the attribute! of a person, his
wit and his moral energy, will exercise,
under any law or extinguishing tyranny,
their proper force—if not overtly, then
covertly ; if not for the law, then against
it : if not wholesomely, then poisonously ;
with right, or by might.
The boundaries of personal influence
it is impossible to fix, as persons are
Digans of moral or supernatural force.
Under the dominion of an idea, which
possesses the minds of multitudes, as
Civil freedom, or the religious sentiment,
the powers of persons are no longer sub-
jects of calculation. A nation of men
unanimously bent on freedom or conquest,
can easily confound the arithmetic of
statists, and achieve extravagant actions,
out of all proportion to their means ; as,
the Greeks, the Saracens, the Swiss, the
Americans, and the French have done.
In like manner, to every particle of pro-
perty belongs its own attraction. A cent
is the representative of a certain quantity
of corn or other commodity. Its value is
in the necessities of the animal man. It
is so much warmth, so much bread, so
much water, so much land. The law may
do what it will with the owner of property,
its just power will still attach to the cent.
The law may in a mad freak say, that all
shall have power except the owners of
property ; they shall have no vote. Never-
theless, by a higher law, the property will,
year after year, write every sxatute that
respects property. The non-proprietor
will be the scribe of the proprietor. What
the owners wish to do, the whole power
of property will do, either through the
law, or else in defiance of it. Of course,
I speak of all the property, not merely of
the great estates. When the rich are out-
voted, 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 pro-
perty to dispose of.
The same necessity which secures the
rights of persons and property against the )
malignity or folly of the magistrate, de- 1
termines the form and methods of govern- |
ing, which are proper to each nation, and
to its habit of thought, and nowise trans-
ferable to other states of society. In this
country, we are very vain of our political
institutions, which are singular in this,
that they sprung, within the memory of
living men, from the character and con-
dition of the people, which they still ex-
press with sufficient fidelity— and we
ostentatiously prefer them to any other
in history. They are not better, but only
fitter for us. We may be wise in assert-
ing the advantage in modern times of the
democratic form, but to other states of
society, in which religion consecrated the
monarchical, that and no. this was expe-
dient. Democracy is better for us, be-
! cause the religious sentiment of the pre-
sent time accords better with it. Born
democrats, who are nowise qualified to
judge of monarchy, which, to our fathers
living in the monarchical idea, was also
relatively right. But our institutions,
though in coincidence with the spirit of
the age, have not any exemption from the
practical defects which have discredited
other forms. Every actual State is cor-
rupt. Good men must not obey the laws
too well. What satire on government can
equal the severity of censure conveyed in
the word politic, which now for ages has
signified cunning, intimating Oat the State
is a trick ?
The same benign necessity and the
same practical abuse appear in the parties
into which each State divides itself, of
opponents and defenders of the adminis-
tration 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 no-
thing perverse in their origin, but rudely
mark some real and lasting relation. Wo
might as wisely reprove the east wind, or
the frost, as a political party, whose
members, for the most part, could give no
account of their position, but stand for
the defence of those interests in which
they find themselves. Our quarrel with
them begins, when they quit this deep
natural ground at the bidding of some
leader, and, obeying personal considera-
tions, throw themselves into the main-
tenance and defence of points, nowise
belonging to their system. A party is
perpetually corrupted by personality,
Whilst we absolve the association from
dishonesty, we cannot extend the same
charity to their leaders. They reap the
rewards of the docility and zeal of the
masses which they direct. Ordinarily,
our parties are parties of circumstance,
and not of principle; as, the planting
interest in conflict with the commercial ;
the party of capitalists, and that of opera-
tives ; parties which are identical in their
moral character, and which can easily
change ground with each other, in the
support of many of their meas^ures.
Parties of principle, as, religious softs, or
ASSAYS.
i4i
the party of free-tfa(le, of universal Suf-
frage, 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 oay be cited as a fair
specimen of these societies of opinion) is,
that they do not plant themselves on the
deep and necessary grounds to which
they are respectively entitled, but lash
themselves to fury in the carrying of
some local and momentary measure no-
wise useful to the commonwealth. Of
the two great parties, which, at this hour,
almost share the nation between them, I
should say, that, one has the best cause,
and the other contains the best men.
The philosopher, the poet, or the religious
man will, of course, wish to cast his vote
with the democrat, for free-trade, for wide
suffrage, for the abolition of Jegal cruel-
ties 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 destruc-
tive only out of hatred and selfishness.
On the other side, the conservative party,
composed of the most moderate, able, and
cultivated part of the population, is timid,
and merely defensive of property. It
vindicates no right, it aspires to no real
good, it brands no crime, it proposes no
generous policy, it does not build nor
write, nor cherish the arts, nor foster reli-
gion, 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 com-
mensurate with the resources of the
nation.
I do not for these defects despair of our
republic. We are not at the mercy of any
waves of chance. In the strife of ferocious
parties, human nature always finds itself
cherished as the children of the convicts
at Botany Bay are found to have as healthy
a moral sentiment as other children.
Citizens of feudal states are alarmed at
our democratic institutions lapsing into
anarcUy ; and the older and more cautious
among ourselves are learning from Euro-
eans to look with some terror at our tuf*
ulent freedom. It is said that in out
license of construing the Constitution,
and in the despotism of public opinion,
we have no anchor; and one loreig a ob-
server 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 ba
compared a monarchy and a republic,
saying, “ that a monarchy is a merchant-
man, 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 dan-
gerous importance whilst we are befriended
by the laws of things. It makes no differ-
ence how many tons' weight of atmos-
phere presses on our heads, so long as
the same pressure resists it within the
lungs. Augment the mass a thousand-fold,
it cannot begin to crush us, as long as
reaction is equal to action. The fact of
two poles, of two forces, centripetal and
centrifugal, is universal, and each force by
its own activity develops the other. Wild
liberty develops iron conscience. Want of
liberty, by strengthening law and decorum,
stupefies conscience. ‘ Lynch-law ’ pre-
vails only where there is greater hardihood
and self-subsistency in the leaders. A
mob cannot be a permanency ; every-
body’s interest requires that it should not
exist, and only justice satisfies all.
We must trust infinitely to the benefi-
cent necessity which shines through all
laws. Human nature expresses itself in
them as characteristically as in statues,
or songs, or railroads, and an abstract of
the codes of nations would be a transcript
of the common conscience. Governments
have their origin in the moral identity of
men. Reason for one is seen to be reason
for another, and for every other. There
is a middle measure which satisfies all
parties, be they never so many, or so
resolute for their own. Every man finds
a sanction for his simplest claims and
deeds in decisions of his own mind, which
he calls Truth and Holiness. In these
decisions all the citizens find a perfect
agreement, and only in these ; not in what
is good to eat, good to wear, good use of
time, or what amount of land, or of public
aid, each is entitled to claim. This trutn
and justice men presently endeavour V/-
make application of, to the measuring of
land, the apportionment of service, th?
protection of life ftnd property. Tbeir
POLITICS
first endeavours, no doubt, are very awk-
ward. Yet absolute right is the first
governor ; or, every government is an
impure theocracy. The idea, after which
each community is aiming to make and
mend its law, is the will of the wise man.
The wise man it cannot find in nature,
and it makes awkward but earnest efforts
to secure his government by contrivance ;
as, by causing the entire people to give
their voices on every measure; or, by a
double choice to get the representation of
the whole ; or, by a selection of the best
citizens; or, to secure the advantages of
efficiency and internal peace, by confiding
the government to one, who may himself
select his agents. All forms of govern-
ment symbolize an immortal government,
common to all dynasties and independent
of numbers, perfect where two men exist,
perfect where there is only one man.
Every man’s nature is a sufficient ad-
vertisement 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 neighbour and I shall often
agree in our means, and work together for
a time to one end. But whenever I find
my dominion over myself not sufficient
for me, and undertake the direction of
him also, I overstep the truth, and come
into false relations to him. I may have
60 much more skill or strength than he,
that he cannot express adequately his
sense of wrong, but it is a lie, and hurts
like a lie both him and me. Love and
nature cannot maintain the assumption ;
it must be executed by a practical lie,
namely, by force. This undertaking for
another is the blunder which stands in
colossal ugliness in the governments of
the world. It is the same thing in num-
bers, as in a pair, only not quite so intel-
ligible. I can see well enough a great
dilference 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 circum-
stances 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
lure both there, both acti But if, without
M3
carrying him into the thought, 1 look over
into his plot, and, guessing how it is with
him, ordain this or that, he will never
obey me. This is the history of govern-
ments — one man does something which is
to bind another. A man who caunot be
acquainted with me taxes me ; looking
from afar at me, ordains that a part of my
labour shall go to this or that whimsical
end, not as I, but as he happens to fancy.
Behold the consequence. Of all debts,
men are least willing to pay the taxes,
What a satire is this on government i
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 con-
fided power. The antidote to this abuse
of formal government, is, the influence of
private character, the growth of the Indi-
vidual ; the appearance of the principal to
supersede the proxy ; the appearance of
the wise man, of whom the existing govern-
ment is, it must be owned, but a shabby
imitation. That which all things tend to
educe, which freedom, cultivation, inter-
course, 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 appearatace 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
favourable circumstance. He needs no
library, for he has not done thinking ; no
church, for he is a prophet; no statute-
book, for he has the lawgiver ; no money,
for he is value ; no road, for he is at home
where he is ; no experience, for the life of
the creator shoots through him, and looks
from his eyes. He has no personal friends,
for he who has the spell to draw the prayer
and piety of all men unto him, needs not
husband and educate a tew, to share with
him a select and poetic life. His reladon
to men is angelic ; his memory is myrrh
to them ; his presence, frankincense and
flowers.
We think our civilization near its meri-
dian, but we are yet only at the cock-
crowing and the morning star. In our
barbarous society the influence of charac-
ter 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. Mai thus a|d Ri-
cardo quite omit it ; the Annual Registev
ESSAYS.
M4
is silenl ; in the Conversations’ Lexicon, it
is not set down ; the President’s Message,
the Queen’s Speech, have not mentioned
it; and yet it is never nothing. Every
thought which genius and piety throw
into the world, alters the world. The
gladiators in the lists of power feel,
through all their frocks of force and
simulation, the presence of worth. I
think the very strife of trade and ambition
are confession of this divinity; and suc-
cesses in those fields are the poor amends,
tlie fig-leaf with which the shamed soul
attempts to hide its nakedness. I find
the like unwilling homage in all quarters.
It is because we know how much is due
from us, that we are impatient to show
some petty talent as a substitute for
worth. We are haunted by a conscience
of this right to grandeur of character, and
are false to it. But each of us has some
talent, can do somewhat useful, or graceful,
or formidable, or amusing, or lucrative.
That we do, as an apology to others and to
ourselves, for not reaching the mark of a
good and equal life. But it does not
satisfy us, whilst we thrust it on the notice
of our companions. It may throw dust
in their eyes, but does not smooth our
own brow, or give us the tranquility of
the strong when we walk abroad. We do
penance as we go. Our talent is a sort of
expiation, and we are constrained to re-
flect on our splendid moment, with a cer-
tain humiliation, as somewhat too fine,
and not as one act of many acts, a fair
expression of our permanent energy.
Most persons of ability meet in society
with a kind of tacit appeal. Each seems
to say, ‘ I am not all here.’ Senators and
presidents have climbed so high with pain
enough, not because they think the place
specially agreeable, but as an apology
for real worth, and to vindicate their
manhood in our eyes. This conspicuous
chair is their compensation to themselves
for being of a poor, cold, hard nature.
They must do what they can. Like one
class of forest animals, they have nothing
but a prehensile tail ; climb they must, or
crawl. If a man found himself so rich-
natured that he could enter into strict
relations with the best persons, and make
life serene around him by the dignity and
sweetness of his behaviour, could he afford
to circumvent the favour of the caucus
and the press, and covet relations so hol-
low and pompous, as those of a politician ?
Surely nobody would be a charlatan, who
could afford to be sincere.
Th4 tendencies of the times favour the
idea of self-government, and leave the In-
dividual, for all code, to the rewards and
penalties of his own constitution, which
work with more energy than we L.elieve,
whilst we depend on artificial restraints.
The movement in this direction has been
very marked in modern history. Much
has been blind and discreditable, but the
nature of the revolution is not affected by
the vices of the revolters ; for this is a
purely moral force. It was never adopted
by any party in history, neither can be.
It separates the individual from all party,
and unites him, at the same time, to the
race. It promises a recognition of higher
rights than those of personal freedom, of
the security of property. A man has a
right to be employed, to be trusted, to be
loved, to be revered. The power of love,
as the basis of a State, has never been
tried. We must not imagine that all
things are lapsing into confusion, if every
tender protestant be not compelled to
bear his part in certain social conven-
tions ; nor doubt that roads can be built,
letters carried, and the fruit of labour
secured, when the government of force is
at an end. Are our methods now so ex-
cellent that all competition is hopeless ?
could not a nation of friends even devise
better ways ? On the other hand, let not
the most conservative and timid fear any-
thing from a premature surrender of the
bayonet, and the system of force. For,
according to the order of nature, which is
quite superior to our will, it stands thus:
there will always be a government of force,
where men are selfish ; and when they are
pure enough to abjure the code of force,
they will be wise enough to see how these
public ends of the post-office, of the high-
way, of commerce, and the exchange of
property, of museums and libraries, of
institutions of art and science, can be
answered.
We live in a very low state of the world,
and pay unwilling tribute to governments
founded on force. There is not, among
the most religious and instructed men of
the most religious and civil nations, a re-
liance on the moral sentiment, and a
sufficient belief in the unity of things, to
persuade them that society can be main-
tained without artificial restraints, as well
as the solar system ; or that the private
citizen might be reasonable, and a good
neighbour, without the hint of a gaol 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 ot renovating the State
NOMINALIST AND REALIST.
on the principle of right and love. All
those v/ho have pretended this design
have been partial reformers, and have ad-
mitted in some manner the supremacy of
the bad State. I do not call to mind a
single human being who has steadily
denied the authority of the laws, on the
simple ground of his own moral nature.
Such designs, full of genius and full of
fate as they are, are not entertained except
avowedly as air-pictures. If the individual
who exhibits them dare to think them
practicable, he disgusts scholars and
churchmen ; and men of talent, and
X45
women of superior sentiments, cannot
hide their contempt. Not the less does
nature continue to fill the heart of youth
with suggestions of this enthusiasm, and
there are now men — if indeed I can speak
in the plural number— more exactly, I will
say, I have just been conversing with one
man, to whom no weight of adverse expe-
rience will make it for a moment appear
impossible, that thousands of human
beings might exercise towards each other
the grandest and simplest sentiments, as
wedl as a knot of friends, or a pair of
lovers.
NOMINALIST AND REALIST.
In countless upward-striving waves
The moon-drawn tide-wave strives:
In thousand far-transplanted grafts
The parent fruit survives ;
So, in the iiow-born millions,
The perfect Adam lives.
Not less are summer mornings dear
To every child they wake,
And each with novel life his sphere
Fills for his proper sake.
1 CANNOT often enough say that a man
Is only a relative and representative
nature. Each is a hint of the truth, but
far enough from being that truth, which
yet he quite newly and inevitably suggests
to us. If I seek it in him, I shall not find
it. Could any man conduct into me the
pure stream of that which he pretends to
be ! Long afterwards, I find that quality
elsewhere which he promised me. The
genius of the Platonists is intoxicating to
the student, yet how few particulars of it
can I delach 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 man-
ners, but separate them, and there is no
gentleman and no lady in the group. The
least hint sets iis on the pursuit of a
character, which no man realizes. We
have such exhorbitant eyes, that on seeing
the smallest arc, we complete the curve,
and when the curtain is lifted from the
diagram which it seemed to veil, we are
vexed to find that no more was drawn,
than just that fragment of an arc which
we first beheld. Wo are greatly too
liberal in our construction of each other’s
faculty and promise. Exactly what the
parties have already done, they shall do
' again ; but that which we inferred from
their nature and inception, they will not
do. That is in nature, but not in them.
That happens in the world, which we
often witness in a public debate. Each of
the speakers expresses himself imper
fectly : 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 wrong-
headed 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 dis-
covery, 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 finislj the
portrait symmetrically ; which is falsf ; for
the rest of his body is small or deformed.
I observe a person who makes a good
public appeaiance, and conclude thence
the perfection of his private character, on
which this is based ; but he has no private
character. He is a graceful cloak or lay-
figure for holidays All our poets, heroes,
and saints fail utterly in some one or in
many parts to satisfy our idea, fail to draw
our spontaneous interest, and so leave us
without any hope of realization but in our
own future. Our exaggeration of aU fine
characters arises from the fact tl||it we
iksSAY^.
Identify each ift turn with the soul. But
there are no such men as we fable ; no
Jesus, norj Pericles, nor Caesar, nor
Angelo, nor Washington, such as we have
made. We consecrate a great deal of
nonsense, because it was allowed by great
men. There is none without his foible,
I verily believe if an angel should come to
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 useful,
but it is worse that no man is fit for
society, who has fine traits. He is admired
at a distance, but he cannot come near
without appearing a cripple. The men of
fine parts protect themselves by solitude,
or by courtesy, or by satire, or by an acid
worldly manner, each concealing, as he
best can, his incapacity for useful associ-
ation, but they want either love or self-
reliance.
Our native love of reality joins with
this experience to teach us a little reserve,
and to dissuade a too sudden surrender
to the brilliant qualities of persons.
Young people admire talents or particular
excellencies ; as we grow older, we value
total powers and effects, as, the impres-
sion, the quality, the spirit of men and
things. The genius is all. The man — it
is his system: we do not try a solitary
word or act, but his habit. The acts
which you praise, I praise not, since they
are departures from his faith, and are
mere compliances. The magnetism which
arranges tribes and races in one polarity is
alone to be respected ; the men are steel-
filings. Yet we unjustly select a particle,
and say, “O steel-filing number one!
what heait-drawings I feel to thee! what
prodigious virtues are these of thine I
how constitutional to thee, and incommu-
nicable* ” Whilst we speak, the loadstone
is withdrawn ; down falls our filing in a
heap with the rest, and we continue our
mummery to the wretched shaving. Let
us go for universals ; for the magnetism,
not for the needles. Human life and its
persons are poor empirical pretensions.
A personal influence is an ignis fa tuns.
If they say, it is great, it is great ; if they
say, it is small, it is small : you see it, and
you see it not, by turns ; it borrows all
its size from the momentary estimation
of the speakers : the Will-of-the-wisp
vanishes if you go too near, vanishes if
you go too far, and only blazes at one
angle^, Who can tell if Washington be a
treat man» or no ? Who can tell if Franklin
be ? Yes, or any but the twelve, or six
or three great gods of fame ? And theyi
too, loom and fade before the eternal.
We are amphibious creatures,
weaponed for two elements having two
sets of faculties, the particular and the
catholic. We adjust our instrument for
general observation, and sweep the
heavens as easily as we pick out a single
figure in the terrestrial landscape. We
are practically skilful in detecting ele-
ments, for which we have no place in our
theory, and no name. Thus we are very
sensible of an atmospheric influence in
men and in bodies of men, not accounted
for in an arithmetical addition of all their
measurable properties. There is a genius
of a nation, which is not to be found in the
numerical citizens, but wdiich character-
ises the society. England, strong, punc-
tual, 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, conventional, proud men—
many old women — and not anywhere the
Englishman who made the good speeches,
combined the accurate engines, and did
the bold and nervous deeds. It is even
worse in America, where, from the intel-
lectual quickness of the race, the genius
of the country is more splendid 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 monu-
ment, to which each forcible individual in
a course of many hundred years has con-
tributed a stone. And, universally, a
good example of this social force is the
veracity of language, which cannot be
debauched. In any controversy concern-
ing morals, an appeal can be made with
safety to the sentiments, which the lan-
guage of the people expresses. Proverbs,
words, and grammar inflections convey
the pubiiC sense with more purity and
precision than the wisest individual.
_ In the famous dispute with the Nomina-
lists, the Realists had a good deal of
reason. General ideas are essences.
They are our gods : they round and en-
noble the most partial and sordid way of
living. Our proclivity to details cannot
NOMINALIST
quite degrade our life, and divest it of
poetry. The day-labourer is reckoned as
standing at the foot of the social scale,
yet he is saturated with the laws of the
world. His measures are the hours;
morning and night, solstice and equinox,
geometry, astronomy, and all the lovely
accidents of nature, play through his
mind. Money, which represents the prose
of life, and which is hardly spoken of in
parlours 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 labour, the wisdom,
and the virtue have been in nations, in
classes, and (the whole life time consid-
ered, with the compensations) in the
individual also. How wise the world
appears, when the laws and usages of
nations are largely detailed, and the com-
pleteness of the municipal system is
considered! Nothing is left out. If you
go into the markets, and the custom-
houses, the insurers’ and notaries’ offices,
the offices of sealers of weights and mea-
sures, of inspection of provisions — it will
appear as if one man had made it all.
VVherever you go, a wit like your own has
been before you, and has realised its
thought. The Eleusinian mysteries, the
Egyptian architecture, the Indian astro-
nomy, the Greek sculpture, show that
there always were seeing and knowing
men in the planet. The v’orld is full of
masonic ties, of guilds, of secret and
public legions of honour ; that of scholars,
for example ; and that of gentlemen fra-
ternising with the upper class of every
country and every culture.
I am very much struck in literature by
the appearence that one person wrote all
the books; as if the editor of a journal
planted his body of reporters in different
parts of the field of action, and relieved
come by others from time to time ; but
there is such equality and identity both of
judgment and point of view in the nar-
rative, that it is plainly the work of one
ali-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. Shakespeare’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
V.hpl^ ov^r tbe members in? my use of
AND REALIST.
books. I find the most pleasure in read-
ing a book in a manner least flattering to
the author. I read Procliis, and some-
times Plato, as I might read a dictionary,
for a mechanical help to the fancy and tna
imagination. I read for the lustres, as if
one should use a fine picture in a chro-
matic experiment, for its rich colours.
’Tis not Proclus, but a piece of nature and
fate that I explore. It is a greater joy to
see the author’s author, than himself. A
higher pleasure of the same kind I found
lately at a concert, where I went to hear
Handel’s Messiah. As the master over-
powered the littleness and incapableness
of the performers, and made them con-
ductors 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 para-
mount at the oratorio.
This preference of the genius to the
parts is the secret of that deification of
art, which is found in all superior minds.
Art, in the artist is proportion, or a
habitual respect to the whole by an eye
loving beauty in details. And the won-
der and charm of it is the sanity in insanity
which it denotes. Proportion is almost
impossible to human beings. There is no
one who does not exaggerate. In conver-
sation, men are encumbered with per-
sonality, 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 pur-
pose. Lively boys write to their ear and
eye, and the cool reader finds nothing but
sweet jingles in it. When they grow older
they respect the argument.
We obey the same intellectual integrity,
when we study in exceptions the law of
the world. Anomalous facts, as the never
quite obsolete rumours of magic and
demonology, and the new allegations of
phrenologists and neurologists, are of
ideal use. They are good indications.
Homoeopathy is insignificant as an art of
healing, but of great value as criticism on
the hygeia or medical practice of the tiino.
So with Mesmerism, Swedenborgism,
Fourierism, and the Millennial Church*
i they are poor pretensions enough^ ^ut
I good criticism go {he scieoeg, philosophy#
ESSAYS.
X48
and preaching of the day. For these ab-
normal insights of the adepts ought to be
normal, and things of course.
All things show us, that on every side
we are very near to the best. It seems
not worth while to execute with too much
pains some one intellectual, or aesthetical,
or civil feat, when presently the dream
will scatter, and we shall burst into uni-
versal power. The reason of idleness
and of crime is the deferring of our hopes.
Whilst we are waiting, we beguile the
time with jokes, with sleep, with eating,
and with crimes.
Thus we settle it in our cool libraries,
that all the agents with which we deal are
subalterns, which we can well afford to
let pass; and life will be simpler when we
live at the centre, and flout the surfaces.
I wish to speak with all respect of persons,
but sometimes I must pinch myself to keep
awake, and preserve the due decorum.
They melt so fast into each other, that
they are like grass and trees, and it needs
an effort to treat them as individuals.
Though the uninspired man certainly
finds persons a conveniency in household
matters, the divine man does not respect
them ; he sees them as a rack of clouds,
or a fleet of ripples which the wind drives
over the surface of the water. But this is
flat rebellion. Nature will not be Budd-
hist ; she resents generalizing, and insults
the philosopher in every moment with a
million of fresh particulars. It is all idle
talking : as much as a man is a whole, so
is he also a part ; and it were partial not
to see it. What you say in your pompous
distribution only distributes you into your
class and section. You have not got rid j
of parts by denying them, but are the
more partial. You are one thing, but
nature is one thing and the other thing, in
the same moment. She will not remain
orbed in a thought, but rushes into per-
sons ; and when each person, inflamed to
a fury of personality, would conquer all
things to his poor crotchet, she raises up
against him another person, and by many
persons incarnates again a sort of whole.
She will have all. Nick Bottom cannot
play all the parts, work it how he may :
there will be somebody else, and the
world will be round. Everything must
have its flower or effort at the beautiful,
coarser or finer according to its stuff.
They relieve and recommend each other,
and the sanity of society is the balance of
a thousand insanities. She punishes ab-
stractionists, and will only forgive an in-
duction which is rare and casual. We like
to come to a height of land and see the land-
scape, 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 hero
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 geni-
uses. She loves better a wheelwright who
dreams all night of wheels, and a groom
who is part of his horse ; for she is fuW 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 despatches a new genius and habit
of mind into every district and condition
of existence, plants an eye wherever a
new ray of light can fall, and gathering up
into some man every property in the uni-
verse establishes thousand-fold occult
mutual attractions among her offspring,
that all this wash and waste of power may
be imparted and exchanged.
Great dangers undoubtedly accrue from
this incarnation and distribution of the
godhead, and hence nature hasher malig-
ners,! 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 plen-
tiful crop of despots. The recluse thinks
of men as having his manner, or as not
having his manner ; and as having degrees
of it, more or 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 child-
hood and youth, he has had many checks
and censures, and thinks modestly enough
of his own endowment. When afterwards
he comes to unfold it in propitious circum-
stance, i'r seems the only talent ; ho is de-
lighted with his success, and accounts
himself already the fellow of the great.
But he goes into the 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,
aud rule the hour. The rotation wrJch
NOMINALIST AND REALIST, *4^
whirls every leaf and pebble to the meri-
dian. reaches to every gift of man, and we
all take turns at the top.
For nature, who abhors mannerism, has
Bet her heart on breaking up all styles
and tricks, and it so much easier to do
what one has done before, than to do a
new thing, that there is a perpetual ten-
dency to a set mode. In every conver-
sation, even the highest, there is a certain
trick, which may be soon learned by an
acute person, and then that particular
ityle 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 human-
ity 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 oppoi^tunity,
and not hurled into aphelion by hatred,
could not have seen. Since we are all so
stupid, what benefit that there should be
two stupidities ? It is like that brute ad-
vantage" so essential to astronomy, of
having the diameter of the earth’s orbit
for a base of its triangles. Democracy is
morose, and runs to anarchy, but in the
state, and in the schools, it is indispen-
sable to resist the consolidation of all men
into a few men. If John was perfect, why
are you and I alive ? As long as any man
exists, there is some need of him ; let him
fight for his own, A new poet has ap-
peared ; a new character approached
us ; why should we refuse to eat bread,
until we have found his regiment and
section in his own army-files ? Why net
a new man ? Here is a new enterprise
of Brook Farm, of Skeneatees, of North-
ampton ; 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. We came
this time for condiments, not for corn.
We want the great genius only for joy;
for one star more in our constellation, for
one tree more in our grove. But he
thinks we wish to belong to him, as he
wishes to occupy us. He greatly mistakes
us. I think I have done well, if I have
acquired a new word from a good author :
and my business with him is to find my
own, though it were only to melt him down
into an epithet or an image for daily use.
** Into paint will I grind thee, my bride I
To embroil the confusion, and make it
impossible to arrive at any general state-
ment, when we have insisted on the im-
I perfection of individuals, our affections
and our experience urge that every indi-
vidual is entitled to honour, 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
habitually with others, and these look less.
Yet are they not entitled to this generosity
of reception ? and is not munificence the
means of insight ? For though gamesters
say, that the cards beat all the players,,
though they were never so skilful, yet in
the contest we are now considering, the
players are also the game, and share the
power of the cards. If you criticise a fine
genius, the odds are that you are out of
your reckoning, and, instead of the poet,
are censuring your own caricature of him.
For there is somewhat spheral and infinite
in every man, especially in every genius,
which, if you can come very near to him,
sports with all your limitations. For,
rightly, every man is a channel through
which heaven floweth, and, whilst I fancied
I was criticising him, I was censu, ring, or
rather terminating, my own soul- After
taxing Goethe as a courtier, artificial,
unbelieving, worldly, — I took up his 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 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 ex-
perience of each mind. She suffers no
seat to be vacant in her college. It is the
secret of the world that all things subsist,
and do not die, but only retire a little
from sight, and afterwards return again.
Whatever does not concern us, is con-
cealed from us. As soon as a persc^ if
no longer related to our present welK
150 ESSAYS.
being, he is concealed, or dies, as we say.
Really, all things and persons are related
to us, but according to our nature, they
act on us not at once, but in succession,
and we are made aware of their presence
one at a time. All persons, all things
which we have known, are here present,
and many more than we see ; the world is
full. As the ancient said, the world is a
plenum or solid ; and if we saw all things
that really surround us, we should be im-
prisoned and unable to move. For,
though nothing is impassable to the soul,
but all things are pervious to it, and like
highways, yet this 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 tne soul, conceals all the furniture and
all the persons that do not concern a par-
ticular soul, from the senses of that indi-
vidual. 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 anew object,
suddenly he beholds it, and no longer
attempts to pass through it, but takes
another way. When he has exhausted
for the time the nourishment to be drawn
from any one person or thing, that object
is withdrawn from his observation, and
though still in his immediate neighbour-
hood, ho does not suspect its presence.
Nothing is dead : men feign themselves
dead, and endure mock funerals and
mournful obituaries, and there they stand
looking out of the v/indow, sound and
well, in some new and strange disguise.
Jesus is not dead : he is very well alive :
nor John, nor Paul, nor Mahomet, nor
Aristotle; at times we believe we have
seen them all, and could easily tell the
names under which they go.
If we cannot make voluntary and con-
scious steps in the admirable science of
universals, let us see the parts wisely, and
infer the genius of nature from the best
particulars with a becoming charity. What
is best in each kind is an index of what
should be the average of that thing. Love
shows me the opulence of nature, by dis-
closing to me in my friend a hidden wealth,
and I infer an equal depth of good in
every other direction. It is commonly
said by farmers, that a good pear or apple
costs no more time or pains to rear, than
A poor one ; so I would have no work of
aft, no speech, or action, or thought, or
but the best.
7^0 end and the meansi the gamester
and the game— life is made up of the
intermixture and reaction of these two
amicable powers, whose marriage appears
beforehand monstrous, as each denies and
tends to abolish the other. We must re-
concile the contradictions as we can, but
j their discord and their cor/cord introduce
wild absurdities into our thinking and
speech. No sentence wilC hold the whole
truth, and the only way in which we can
be just, is by giving ourselves the lie ;
speech is better than silence : silence is
better than speech ; all things are in con-
tact ; every atom has a sphere of repul-
sion; things are, and are not, at the same
time; and the like. All the universe
over, there is but one thing, this old
Two-Face, creator-creature mind-matter,
right-wrong, of which any proposition
may be affirmed or denied. Very fitly,
therefore, I assert, that every man is a
partialist, that nature secures him as an
instrument by self-conceit, preventing the
tendencies to religion and science ; and
now further assert, that, eacn man’s
genius being nearly and affectionately
explored, he is justified in his indivi-
duality, as his nature is found to be im-
mense ; and now I add, that every man is
a universalist also, and, as our earth,
whilst it spins on its own axis, spins all
the time around the sun through the
celestial spaces, so the least of its rational
children, the most dedicated to his private
affair, works out, though as it were under
a disguise, the universal problem. Wo
fancy men are individuals ; so are pump-
kins ; but every pumpkin in the field goes
through every point of pumpkin history.
The rabid democrat, as soon as he is
senator and rich man, has ripened beyond
Iiossibility of sincere radicalism, and un-
less he can resist the sun, he must bo
conservative the remainder of his days.
Lord Eldon said in his old age, “ that, if
he were to begin life again, he would bo
damned but he would begin as agitator.”
We hide this universality, if we can,
but it appears at all points. We are as
ungrateful as children. There is nothing
we cherish and strive to draw to us, but
in some hour we turn and rend it. We
keep a ruu/dng fire of sarcasm at igno-
ranC'3 and the life of the senses; then
goes by, perchance, a fair girl, a piece of
life, gay and happy, and making the com-
monest offices beautiful, by the energy
and heart with which she does them, and
seeing this, we admire and love her and
them, and say, ” Lo ! a genuine creature
of tho fair earth, not dissipated, or tog
NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS.
early ^‘ipened by bocks, philosophy, reli-
gion, society, or care!” insinuating a
treachery and contempt for all we liad so
long loved and wrought in ourselves and
others.
If we could have any security against
moods 1 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 I 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
succour of the world, siiall in a few weeks
be coldly set aside by the same speaker,
IS morbid ; ” I thought I was right, but I
was not,” and the same immeasurable
credulity demanded for new audacities.
If we were not of all opinions ! if we did
not in any moment shift the platform on
which we stand, and look and speak from
another! if there could be any regulation,
iny “ one-hour-rulc,” tliat a man should
never leave his point of view, without
Bound of trumpet, I am always insincere,
as always knowing there are otlicr moods.
How sincere and confidential we can
be, saying all that lies in the mind and
yet go away feeling that all is yet unsaid,
from the incapacity of the parties to know
each other, altl^ough they use the same
words ! My companion assumes to know
my mood and habit of thought, and we
go on from explanation to explanation,
until all is said which words can, and we
leave matters just as they were at first,
because of that vicious assumption. Is
it that every man believes every other to
be an incurable partialist, and himself a
universalist ? I talked yesterday with a
pair of philosophers: I endeavoured to
show my good men that I liked everything
by turns, and nothing long ; that I loved
the centre, but doted on the superficies;
that I loved man, if men seemed to mo
mice and rats : that I revered saints, but
woke up glad that the old pagan world
stood its ground, and died hard ; that I
was glad of men of every gift and nobility,
but would not live in their arms. Could
they but once understand, that I loved to
know that they existed, and heartily
wished them Godspeed, yet, out of my
poverty of life and thought, had no word
or welcome for them when they came to
see me, and could well consent to their
living in Oregon, for any claim I felt oa
them, it would bo great satisfaction!
NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS.
A Lecture Read before the Society in Amory Hall, on Sunday,
March 3, 1844.
In the suburb, fn the town,
On tine railway, in the square.
Canity a beam of goodness down
Doubling dayliglit everywhere :
Peace now eacii tor malice takeSj
lieauty tor his sinlul weeds ;
For the angel Hope aye makes
Him an angel whom she leads.
Whoever has had opportunity of ac-
quaintance with society in New England,
during the last twenty-five years, with
those middle and with those leading sec-
tions that may constitute any just lepre-
Bentation of the character and aim of the
community, will have been struck with the
great activity of thought and experiment-
ing. His attention must be commanded
by the signs that the Church, or religious
party, is falling from the church nominal,
and is appearing in temperance and non-
resistance societies, in movements cf ab-
olitionists and of socialists, and in very
significant assemblies, called Sabbath and
Bible Conventions— composed of ultraists,
of seekers, of all the soul of the soldiery
of dissent, and meeting to call in question
the authority of the Sabbath, of the priest-
hood, and of the church. In these move-
ments, nothing was more remarkable than
the discontent they begot in the movers.
The spirit of protest and of detachment
drove the members of these Conventions
to bear testimony against the church, and
immediately afterward, to declare their
discontent with these Conventions, their
independence of their colleagues, and
their impatience of the methods whereby
they were working. They defied each
other, like a congress of kings, each of
whom had a realm to rule, and a way of
his own that made concert unprofit?3^lQ ■
What a fertility of projects for the salva-
152 ESSAYS.
tion of the world I One apostle thought
all men should go to farming ; and another,
that no man should buy or sell ; that the
use of money was the cardinal evil;
another, that the mischief was in our
diet, that we eat and drink damnation.
These made unleavened bread, and were
foes to the death to fermentation. It was
in vain urged by the housewife, that God
made yeast, as v;ell 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 di-
gestible. No ; they wish the pure wheat,
and will die but it shall not ferment. Stop,
dear nature these incessant advances of
thine : let us scotch these ever-rolling
wheels! Others attacked the system of
agriculture, the use of animal manures in
farming; and the tyranny of man over
brute nature; these abuses polluted his
food. The ox must be taken from the
plough, and the horse from the cart, the
hundred acres of the farm must be spaded,
and the man must walk wherever boats
and locomotives will not carry him. Even
the insect world was to be defended— that
had been too long neglected, and a society
for the protection of ground-worms, slugs,
and mosquitoes was to be incorporated
without delay. With these appeared the
adepts of homoeopathy, of hydropathy, of
mesmerism, of phrenology, and their won-
derful theories of the Christian miracles !
Others assailed particular vocations, as
that of the lawyer, that of the merchant,
of the manufacturer, of the clergyman, of
the scholar. Others attacked the institu-
tion 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
antinomianisin among the elder puritans
seemed to have their match in the plenty
of the new harvest of reform.
With this din of opinion and debate,
there was a keener scrutiny of institutions
and domestic life than any we had known,
there was sincere protesting against exist-
ing evils, and there were changes of em-
ployment dictated by conscience. No
doubt, there was plentiful vapouring, and
cases of backsliding might occur. But in
each of these movements emerged a good
result, a tendency to the adoption of sim-
pler metliods, and an assertion of the
sufficiency of the private man. Thus it
was directly in the spirit and genius cf
the(ige, what happened in one instance,
wber a church ^ensured and thr^t^n^
to excommunicate one of its members, on
account of the somewhat hostile part to
the church, which hif conscience led him
to take in the anti-slavery business ; the
threatened individual immediately excom-
municated the church in a public and
formal process. This has been sever^
times repeated ; ft was excellent when it
was done the first time; but, of course,
loses all value when it is copied. Every
roject in the history of reform, no matter
ow violent and surprising, is good, when
it is the dictate of a man’s genius and
constitution, but very dull anc^ 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 mea-
sure 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 v;ill have a giving as free and
divine : but we are very easily disposed to
resist the same generosity of speech, when
we miss originality and truth to character
in it.
There was in all the practical activities
of Nev/ England, for the last quarter of
a century, a gradual withdrawal of tender
consciences from the social organizations,
There is observable throughout, the con-
test between mechanical and spiritual
methods, but with a steady tendency of
the thoughtful and virtuous to a deeper
belief and reliance on spiritual facts.
In politics, for example, it is easy to see
the progress of dissent. The country is
full of rebellion ; the country is full of
kings. Hands off! let there be no con-
trol and no interference 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 experiment, 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 columns, “The world is
governed too much.” So the country is
frequently affording solitary examples of
resistance to the government, solitary
nullifiers, who throw themselves on their
reserved rights ; nay, who have reserved
all their rights : who reply to the assessor,
and to the clerk of court, that they do not
know the State ; and embarrass the
courts of law, by non-juring, and the
commander-in-chief of the militia, by non-
resistance.
The same disposition to scrutiny and
dissent appeared in civil, festive, neig^-
NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS.
hourly, and domestic society. A restless,
prying, conscientious criticism broke out
in unexpected quarters. Who gave me the
money with which I bought my coat ?
Why should professional labour and that
of the counting-house be paid so dispro-
portionately to the labour of the porter
and woodsawyer ? This whole business of
Trade gives me to pause and think, as it
constitutes false relations between men ;
inasmuch as I am prone to count myself
relieved of any responsibility to behave
well and nobly to that person whom I pay
with money, whereas if I had not that com-
modity, I should be put on my good
behaviour in all companies, and man
would be a benefactor to man, as being
himself his only certificate that he had a
right to those aids and services which
each asked of the other. Am I not too
protected a person ? is there not a wide
disparity between the lot of me and the
lot of thee, my poor brother, my poor
sister ? Am I not defrauded of my best
culture in the loss of these gymnastics
which manual labour and the emergencies
of poverty constitute ; I find nothing
healthful or exalting in the smooth con-
ventions 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 des-
tructive tax in my conformity.
The same insatiable criticism may be
traced in the efforts for the reform of
education. The popular education has
been taxed with a want of truth and
nature. It was complained that an educa-
tion to things was not given. We are
students of words; we are shut up in
schools, and colleges, and recitation-
rooms, for ten or fifteen years, and come
out at last with a bag of wind, a memory
of words, and do not know a thing. We
cannot use our hands, or our legs, or our
eyes, or our arms. We do not know an
edible root in the woods, we cannot tell
our course by the stars, nor the hour of the
day by the sun. It is well if we can swim
and skate. We are afraid of a horse, of a
cow, of a dog, of a snake, of a spider,
The Roman rule was to teach a boy
nothing that he could not learn standing.
The old English rule was, “All summer
in the field, and all winter in the study."
And it seems as if a man should learn to
plant, or to fish, or to hunt, that he might
secure his subsistence at all events, and
not be painful to his friends and fellow-
nien. The lessons of science should be
•xperimental also, The sight of the planet
153
through a telescope \n worth all the course
on astronomy ; the shock of the electric
spa/k in the elbow outvalues all the
theories ; the taste of the nitrous oxide,
the firing of an artificial volcano, are
better than volumes of chemistry.
One of the traits of the new spirit is the
inquisition it fixed on our scholastic de-
votion 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 all
men. Once (say two centuries ago), Latin
and Greek had a strict relation to all the
science and culture there was in Europe,
and the Mathematics had a momentary
importance at some era of activity in
physical science. These things became
stereotyped as education, as the manner
of men is. But the Good Spirit never
cared for the colleges, and though all men
and boys were now drilled in Latin,
Greek, and Mathematics, it had quite left
these shells high and dry on the beach,
and was now creating and feeding other
matters at other ends of the world. But in
a hundred high schools and colleges, this
warfare against common sense still goes
on. Four, or six, or ten years, the pupil
is passing Greek and Latin, and as soon
as he leaves the University, as it is ludi-
crously styled, he shuts those books for the
last time. Some thousands of young men
are graduated at our colleges in this
country every year, and the persons who,
at forty years, still read Greek, can all
be counted on your hand. I Jiever 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 that
lead to nothing ? What was the conse-
quence ? Some intelligent persons said
or thought : * Is that Greek and Latin
some spell to conjure with, and not words
of reason ? If the physician, the lawyer,
the divine, never use it to come at their
ends, I need never learn it to come at
mine. Conjuring is gone out of fashion,
and I will omit this conjugating, and go
straight to affairs.’ So they jumped the
Greek and Latin, and read laws, medicine,
or sermons, without it. To the astonish-
ment of all, the self-made men took e^n
ground at once with the oldest of the reju-
Igir io a faw monthi tht
ESSAYS.
154
most conservative circles of Boston and
New York had quite forgott^ who of
their gownsmen was college-bred, and who
was not.
One tendency appears alike in the philo-
sophical speculation, and in the rudest
democratical movements, through all the
petulance and all the puerility, the wish,
namely, to cast aside the superfluous, and
arrive at short methods, urged, as I sup-
pose, by an intuition tliat the human spirit
is equal to all emergencies alone, and that
man is more often injured than help>ed :
by the means he uses. I
I conceive this gradual casting off of
material aids, and the indication of grow-
ing trust in the private, self-supplied
powers of the individual, to be the affir-
mative principle of the recent philosophy ;
and that it is feeling its own profound
truth, and is reaching forward at this very
hour to the happiest conclusions. I
readily concede that in this, as in every
period of intellectual activity, there has
been a noise of denial and protest ; much
was to be resisted, much was to bo 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 preteriu. They lose their
way ; in the assault of the kingdom of
darknees, they expend all their energy on
some accidental evil, and lose their sanity
and power of benefit. It is of little mo-
ment 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 w'e have witnessed has made one
thing plain, that society gains nothing
whilst a man, not himself renovated, at-
tempts 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 estab-
lishment better than the establishment,
and conduct that in the best manner, than
to make a sally against evil by some
single improvement, without supporting it
by a total regeneration. Do not be so vain
of your one objection. Do you think there
is only one ? Alas ! my good friend there
is no part of society or of life better than
any other part. All our things are right
an^^.' wrong together. The wave of evil
washes all our institutions alike. Do you
complain of our Ma nage ? Our marriage
is no worse than our education, our diet,
our trade, our social customs. Do you
complain of the laws of Property? It is
a pedantry to give such importance to
them. Can w^e not play the game of life
with these counters as well as with those;
in the institution of property, is well as
out of it. Let into it the new and renew-
ing principle of love, and property vill be
universality. No one gives the impression
of superiority to the institution, whicli he
must give who will reiorm it. It makes
no difference what you say; you must
make me feel that you are aloof from it ;
by your natural and supernatural advan-
tages, do easily see to the end of it, do
see how man can do without it. Now all
men are on one side. No man deserves
to be hearl against property. Only Love,
only an idea, is against property, as wa
hold it.
I cannot afford to be irritable and cap-
tious, nor to waste all my time in attacks.
If I should go out of church whenever I
hear a false sentiment, I could never stay
there five minutes. But why come out ?
the street is as false as the church, and
when I get to my house, or to my
maimers, or to my speech, I have not got
away from the lie. When we see an eager
assailant of one of these wrongs, a special
reformer, we feel like asking him, What
right have you, sir, to your one virtue ? Ja
virtue piecemeal ? This is a jewel amidst
the rags of a beggar.
In another way the right will be vindi-
cated. 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 char-
acter 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 move-
ment party, the other defect v/as their
reliance on Association. Doubts such as
those I have intimated drove many good
persons to agitate the questions of social
reform. But the revolt against the spirit
of commerce, the spirit of aristocracy,
and tiie 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
ENGLAND REFORMERS.
been formed in Massachusetts on kindred
plans, and many more in the country at
large. They aim to give every member
a share in the manual labour, to give an
equal rev/ard to labour and to talent, and
to unite a liberal culture with an educa-
tion to labour. The scheme offers, by the
economies of associated labour and ex-
pense, to make every member rich, on
the same amount of property, that, in
separate families, would leave every mem-
ber poor. These new associations are
composed of men and women of superior
talents and sentiments ; yet it may easily j
be questioned, whether such a com-
munity will draw, except in its beginnings,
the able and the good ; whether those who |
have energy will not prefer their chance
of superiority and power in the world, to
the humble certainties of the association ;
whether such a retreat does not promise I
to become an asylum to those who have
tried and failed, rather than a field to the
strong; and whether the members will
not necessarily be fractions of men, be-
cause each finds that he cannot enter it,
without some compromise. Friendship
and association ure very fine things, and a
grand phalanx of the best of the human
race, banded for some catholic object:
yes, excellent; but remember that no
society can ever be so large as one man.
He in his friendship, in his natural and
momentary associations, doubles or mul-
tiplies himself ; but in the hour in whicli
he mortgages himself to two or ten or
twenty, he dwarfs himself below the
stature of one.
But the men of less faith could not thus
believe, and to such, concert appears the
sole specific of strength. I have failed,
and you have failed, but perhaps together
we shall not fail. Our housekeeping is
not satisfactory to us, but perhaps a
phalanx, a community, might be. Many
of us have differed in opinion, and we
could find no man who could make the
truth plain, but possibly a college or an
ecclesiastical council might. I have not
been able either to persuade my brother
cr to prevail on myself, to disuse the
tffaffic or the potation of brandy, but
perhaps a pledge of total abstinence might
effectually restrain us. The candidate
my party votes for is not to be trusted
with a dollar, but he will be honest in the
Senate, for we can bring public opinion
to bear on him. Thus, concert was the
specific in all cases. But concert is
neither better nor worse, neither more
nor less potent than individual force. All
155
the men in the world cannot make a
statue walk and speak, cannot make a
drop of blood, or a blade of grass, any
more than one man can. But let there
be one man, let there be truth in two
men, in ten men, then is Concert for the
first time possible, because the force
which moves the world is k new quality,
and can never be furnis/ied by adding
whatever quantities of a different kind.
What is the use of the concert of the false
and the disunited ? There can be no
concert in two, where there is no concert
in one. When the individual is not in-
dividual, but is dual ; when his thoughts
look one way, and his actions another;
when his faith is traversed by his habits ;
when his w’ill, enlightened by reason, is
warped by his sense ; when with one
hand he rows, and with the other backs
water, what concert can be ?
I do not wonder at the interest these
projects inspire. The world is awaking
to the idc^a of union, and these experi-
ments show what it is thinking of. It is,
and will be magic. Men will live and
communicate, and plough, and reap, and
govern, as by added ethereal power, when
once they are united ; as in a celebrated
experiment, by expiration and respiration
exactly together, four persons lift a heavy
man from the ground by the little finger
only, and without sense of weight. But
this union must be inward, and not oneoi
covenants, and is to be reached by a re-
verse of the methods they use. The union
is only perfect, when all the uniters are
isolated. It is the union of friends whe
live in different streets or towns. Each
man, if he attempts to join himself to
others, is on all sides cramped and di-
minished of his proportion; and the stricter
the union, the smaller and the more
pitiful he is. But leave him alone, to
recognize in every hour and place the
secret soul, he will go up and down doing
the works of a true member, and, to the
astonishment of all, the work will be done
with concert, though no man spoke. Go-
vernment will be adamantine without any
governor. The union must be ideal in
actual individualism.
I pass to the indication in some par-
ticulars of that faith in man, which the
heart is preaching to us in these days, and
which engages the more regard, from tho
consideration, that the speculations of one
generation are the history of the next
following.
In alluding just now to our system of
education, I spoke of the deadness^f ita
ESSAYS.
156
details. But it is open to graver criticism
than the palsy of its members : it is a
system of despair. The disease with
which the human mind now labours is
want of faith. Men do not believe in a
power of education. We do not think we
can speak to divine sentiments in man,
and we do not try. We renounce all high
aims. We believe that the defects of so
many perverse and so many frivolous
people, who make up society, are organic,
and society is a hospital of incurables. A
man of good sense but of little faith, whose
compassion seemed to lead him to church
as often as he went there, said to me,
that lie liked to have concerts, and fairs,
and churches, and other public amuse-
ments go on.” I am afraid the remark is
too honest and comes from the same
■origin as the maxim of the tyrant, “ If you
‘■51/ould rule the world quietly, you must
keep it amused.” I notice too, that the
ground on which eminent public servants
urge the claims of popular education is
fear ; ‘ This country is filling up with
thousands and millions of voters, and you
must educate them to keep them from our
throats,’ We do not believe that any
education, any system of philosophy, any
influence of genius, will ever give depth of
insight to a superficial mind. Having
settled ourselves into this infidelity, our
skill is expended to procure alleviations,
diversion, opiates. Wo adorn the victim
with manual skill, his tongue with langu-
ages, his body with inoffensive and comely
manners. So have wo cunningly hid the
tragedy of limitation and inner death we
cannot avert. Is it strange that society
should be devoured by a secret melan-
choly, which breaks through all its smiles,
and all its gaiety and games ?
But even one step farther our infidelity
has gone. It appears that some doubt
is felt by good and wise men, whether
really the happiness and probity of men
is increased by the culture of the mind in
those disciplines to which we give the
name of education. Unhappily, too, the
doubt comes from scholars, from persons
who have tried these methods. In their
experience, the scholar was not raised by
the sacred thoughts amongst which he
dwelt, but used them to selfish ends. He
was a profane person, and became a
showman, turning his gifts to a market-
able use, and not to his own sustenance
and growth. It vvas found that the in-
tellect could be independently developed,
that is, in separation from the man, as any
singly organ can ba invigorated, and the
result was monstrous. A c&aina appetite
for knowledge was generated, which must
still bo fed, but was never satisfied, and
this knowledge not being directed on
action, never took the character of sub-
stantial, humane truth, blessing those
whom it entered. It gave the scholar
certain powers of expression, the power of
speech, the power of poetry, of literary
art, but it did not bring him to peace, or
to beneficence.
When the literary class betray a desti-
tution of faith, it is not strange that
society should be disheartened and sen-
sualized by unbelief. What remedy ? Life
must be lived on a higher plane. We
must go up to a higher platform, to which
we are always invited to ascend ; there
the whole aspect of things changes. I
resist the scepticism of our education, and
of our educated men. I do not believe
that the differences of opinion and char-
acter in men are organic. I do not
recognize, beside the class of the good and
the wise, a permanent class of sceptics, or
a class of conservatives, or of malignants,
or of materialists. I do not believe in two
classes. You remember the story of tha
poor woman who importuned King Philip
of Macedon to grant her justice, which
Philip refused : the woman exclaimed,
” I appeal” : the king, astonished, asked
to whom she appealed : the woman re-
plied, ” From Philip drunk to Philip
sober.” The text will suit me very well.
I believe not in two classes of men, but in
man in two moods, in Philip drunk and
Philip sober. I think, according to the
good-hearted word of Plato, ” Unwillingly
the soul is deprived of truth,” Iron
conservative, miser, or thief, no man is,
but by a supposed necessity, which ho
tolerates by shortness or torpidity of sight.
The soul lets no man go without somo
visitations and holydays of a diviner pre-
sence. It would be easy to show, by a
narrow scanning of any man’s biograpliy,
that we are not so wedded to our paltry
performances of every kind, but that every
man has at intervals the grace to scorn
his performances, in comparing them with
his belief of what he should do, that he
puts himself on the side of his enemies,
listening gladly to what they say of him,
and accusing himself of the same things.
What is it men love in Genius, but its
infinite hope, which degrades all it has
done ? Genius counts all its miracles
poor and short. Its own idea it never
executed. The Iliad, the Hamlet, the
Doric column, the Roman arch, the Gothic
N£:tv ENCLAND REPORMBRS.
minster, the German anthem, when they
are ended, the master casts behind him.
How sinks the song in the waves of mel-
ody, which the universe pours over his
soul ! Before that gracious Infinite, out of
which he drew these few strokes, how
mean they look, though the praises of the
world attend them. From the triumphs
of his art, he turns with desire to this
greater defeat. Let those admire who
will. With silent joy he sees himself to
be capable of a beauty that eclipses all
which liis hands have done, all which
human hands have ever done.
Well, we are all the children of genius,
the children of virtue — and feel their in-
spirations in our happier hours. Is not
every man sometimes a radical in politics ?
Men are conservatives when they are
least vigorous, or when they are most
luxurious. They are conservatives after
dinner, or before taking their rest ; when
they are sick or aged : in the morning, or
when their intellect or their conscience
have been aroused, when they hear music,
or when they read poetry, they are radi-
cals. In the circle of the rankest tones j
that could be collected in England, Old
or New, let a powerful and stimulating
intellect, a man of great heart and mind,
act on them, and very quickly these frozen
conservators will yield to the friendly in-
fluence, these hopeless will begin to hope,
these haters will begin to love, these im-
movable statues will begin to spin and
revolve. 1 cannot help recalling the fine
anecdote which Wharton relates of Bishop
Berkeley, when he was preparing to leave
England, with his plan of planting the
gospel among the American savages.
“ Lord Bathurst told me that the members
of the Scriblerus club, being met at his
house at dinner, they agreed to rally
Berkeley, who was also his guest, on his
scheme at Bermudas. Berkeley, having
listened to the many lively things they had
to say, begged to be heard in his turn,
and displayed his plan with such an
astonishing and animating force of elo-
quence and enthusiasm, that they were
struck dumb, and, after some pause, rose
up all together with earnestness, exclaim-
ing, ‘ Let us set out with him immedi-
ately.’ ” Men in all ways are better than
they seem. They like flattery for the
moment, but they know the truth for their
own. It is a foolish cowardice which
keeps us from trusting them, and speak-
ing to them rude truth. They resent
your I'.oiiesty for an instant, they will
Uiank you for it always, What is it wo
157
heartily wish of each other ? Is it to be
pleased or flattered ? No, but to be con-
victed and exposed, to be shamed out of
our nonsense of all kinds, and made men
of, instead of ghosts and phantoms. We
are weary of gliding ghostlike through the
world, which is itself so slight and unreal.
We crave a sense of reality, though it
come in strokes of pain. I explain so—
by this manlike love of truth — those ex-
cesses and errors into which sculs 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 masque-
rade, and conceive a disgust at the indi-
gence of nature: Rousseau, Mirabeau,
Charles Fox, Napoleon, Byron — and I
could easily add names nearer home, of
raging riders, who drive their steeds so
hard, in the violence of living to forget its
illusion ; tliey would know the worst, and
tread the floors of hell. The heroes of
ancient and modern fame, Cimon, Themis-
tocles, Alcibiades, Alexander, Ca3sar, have
treated life and fortune as a game to be
well and skilfully played, but the stake
not to be so valued but tliat any time it
could be held as a trifle light as air, and
thrown up. Ctesar, just before the battle
of Pharsalia, discourses with the Egyptian
priest, concerning the fountains of the
Nile, and offers to quit the army, the
empire, and Cleopatra, if he will show hinj
those mysterious sources.
The same magnanimity shows itself in
our social relations, in the preference,
namely, which each man gives to the
society of superiors over that of his
equals. All that a man has, will he give
for right relations with his mates. All
that he has will lie give for an erect de-
meanour in every company and on each
occasion. He aims at such things as his
neighbours prize, and gives his days and
niglits, 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 mer-
chant, of a man of mark in his profession;
naval and military honour, a general’s
commission, a marshal’s baton, a ducal
coronet, the laurel of poets, and, anyhow
procured, the acknowledgment of eminent
merit, have this lustre for each candidate,
that they enable him to walk erect and
unashamed, in the presence of some per-
sons, before whom he felt himself inferior.
Having raised himself to this rank,
having establiabed V* equality witl^ciass
x*rS ESSAYS,
Rfter class, of those with whom he would
live well, ha still finds certain others,
before whom he cannot possess himself,
because they have somewhat fairer, some-
what grander, somewhat purer, which
extorts homage of him. Is his ambition
pure ? then, will his laurels and his pos-
sessions seem worthless : instead of avoid-
ing 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. lie is
sure that the soul which gives the lie to
all things will tell none. His constitution
will not mislead him. If it cannot carry
itself as it ought, high and unmatchable
in the presence of any man, if the secret
oracles whose whisper makes the sweet-
ness and dignity of his life, do here with-
draw and accompany him no longer, it is
time to undervalue what he has valued,
to dispossess himself of what he has ac-
quired, and with Cmsar 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 rejt^ct us as un-
worthy, for they add another life : they
build a heaven before us, whereof we had
not dreamed, and thereby supply to us
new powers out of the recesses of the
spirit, and urge us to new and unattempted
performances.
As every man at heart wishes the best
and not inferior society, wishes to be
convicted of his error, and to come to
himself, so he wishes that tlie same heal-
ing should not stop in his thought, but
shouVi penetrate his will or active power.
The selfish man suffers more from his
selfishness, than he from whom that self-
ishness 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 Iragments
of ice, melted and carried away in the
great stream of goodwill. Do you ask
my aid ? I also wish to be a benefactor.
I wish more to be a benefactor and ser-
vant, than you wish to be served by me,
and surely the greatest good fortune that
could ^ efall mo, is precisely to bo so
moved by you that I should say, I'akd
me and all mine, and use me and mine
freely to your ends ! “ for, I could not say
it, otherwise tlian because a great enlarge-
ment had come to my heart and mind,
which made me superior to my fortunes.
Here we are paralyzed with fear ; we hold
on to our little properties, house and land,
office and money, for the bread which
they have in our experience yielded us,
although we confess, that our being does
not How through them. We desire to be
made great, we desire to be touched with
that fire which shall command this ice to
stream, and make our existence a benefit.
If therefore we start objections to your
project, O friend of the slave, or friend of
the poor, or of the race, understand well,
that it is because we wish to drive you to
drive us into your measures. We wish to
hear ourselves confuted. We are haunted
with a belief that you have a secret, which
it would highliest advantage us to learn,
and we would force you to impart it to iis^
though it should bring us to prison, or to
worse extremity.
Nothing shall warp me from the belief,
that every man is a lover of truth. There
is no pure lie, no pure malignity in nature
The entertainment of the proposition ol
depravity is the last profligacy and pro-
fanation. There is no scepticism, no
atheism, but that. Could it be received
into common belief, suicide would un-
people the planet. It has had a name to
live in some dogmatic theology, but each
man’s innocence and his real liking of his
neighbour have kept it a dead letter. I
remember standing at the polls one day,
when the anger of the political contest
gave a certain grimness to the faces of the
independent electors, and a good man at
my side looking on the people, remarked,
“ I am satisfied that the largest part of
these men, on either side, mean to vote
right." I suppose, considerate observers
looking at the masses of men, in their
blameless, and in their equivocal actions,
will assent, that in spite of selfisline.ss and
frivolity, the general purpose in the great
number of persons is fidelity. The reason
why any one refuses his assent to your
opinion, or his aid to your benevolent
design, is in y^^u : he refuses to accept you
as a bringer ot truth, because, though you
think you have it, he feels that you have it
not. You have not given him the authen-
tic sign.
If it were worthwhile to run into detaila
this general doctrine of the latent but ever-
soliciting Spirit, it would be easy to ad-
NBIV ENGLAND REFORMERS.
ducd illustration in particulars of a man’s
equality to the church, of his equality to
the state, and of his equality to every
other man. It is yet in all men’s memory
that, a few years ago, the liberal churches
complained, that the Calvinistic church
denied to them the name of Christian. I
think the complaint was confession : a
religious church would not complain. A re-
ligious 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, tliat a just man should
walk in our streets, to make it appear how
pitiful and inartificial a contrivance is our
legislation. The man whose part is taken
and who does not wait for society in any-
thing, has a power which society cannot
choose but feel. The familiar experiment,
called the hydrostatic paradox, in which a
capillary column of w^ater 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 Socrates
l^ythagoras, and Diogenes read, “judged
them to be great men every way, except-
ing, that they were too much subjected to
the reverence of the laws, which to second
and authorize true virtue must abate very
much of its original vigor.”
And as a man is equal to the church,
and equal to the state, so he is cctual to
every other man, Tlie disparities of power
In men are superficial ; and all frank and
searching conversation, in which 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, tlie remark is sure to
be mazle, See how we have disputed about
words! Let a clear, a|)preheiisive mind,
such as every man knows among his
triends, converse with the most command-
ing poetic genius, I think, it would appear
that there was no inequality such as men
fancy between them ; that a perfect under-
ftanding, a like receiving, a like perceiv-
ing ; abolished differences, and the poet
would confess, that his creative imagina-
tion gave him no deep advantage, but only
the superficial one, that he could express
himself, and the other could not ; that his
advantage was a knack, which might im-
pose on indolent men, but could not im-
pose 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 incompar-
^59
ably superior to his companion in some
faculty, llis want of skill in other direc-
tions has added to his fitness for his o«,vn
work. Each seems to have some com-
pensation yielded to him by his infirmity,
and every hinderance operates as|a concziu*
tration of his force.
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 commujiications. We
seek to say thus and so, and over our head
some spirit sits, which contradicts what
we say. We would persuade our fellow to
this or that; another self within our ejeg
dissuades him. That which we keep back,
tills reveals. In vain we compose our
faces and our words ; it holds uncontroll-
able communication with the enemy, and
he answers civilly to us, but believes the
spirit. We exclaim, ‘ There’s a traitor in
the house I * 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 hast reality, so subtle, so quiet,
yet so tenacious, that although I have never
expressed the truth, and although I have
never heard the expression of it from any
other, I know that the wiiole truth is here
for me. What if I cannot answer your
questions ? I am not pained that I cannot
frame a reply to the question, What is the
operation we call Providence ? There
lies the unspoken thing, present, omni-
present. 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 ap-
proximate answer : but it is of small con-
sequence, that we do not get it into verbs
and nouns, whilst it abided for contempla-
tion 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 success, when
we obey it, and of our ruin, when we con-
travene 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 clmos
would come. It rewards actions alter
iCo ESSAYS.
their nature, and not after the design of
the agent. ‘ Work,’ it saith to man, ‘ in
every hour, paid or unpaid, see only that
thou work, and thou canst not escape the
reward: whether thy work be fine or
coarse, planting corn, or writing epics, so
only it be honest work, done to thine own
approbation, it shall earn a reward to the
Benses as well as to the thought: no
matter how often defeated, you are born
to victory. The reward of a thing well
done is to have done it.’
As soon as a man is wonted to look
beyond surfaces, and to see how this high
will prevails without an exception or an
interval, he settles himself into serenity.
He can already rely on the laws of gravity,
that every stone will fall where it is due ;
the good globe is faithful, and carries us se-
curely through the celestial spaces, anxious
or resigned : we need not interfere to help
it on, and he will learn, one day, the mild
lesson they teach, that our own orbit is all
our task, and we need not assist the
administration of the universe. Do not
be so impatient to set the town right con-
cerning the unfounded pretensions and
the false reputation of certain men of
standing. They are labouring harder to
so: the town right concerning themselves,
and will certainly succeed. Suppress
for a few days your criticism on the in-
sufficiency of this or that teacher or
experimenter, and he will have demon-
strated his insufficiency to all men’s eyes,
tu liko manner, let a man fall into the
divine circuits, and fae is enlarged.
Obedience to his genius is the only liber-
ating influence. We wish to escape from
subjection, and a sense of inferiority, and
we make solf-denying ordinances, we drink
water, we eat grass, we refuse the laws,
we go to jail; it is all in vain; only by
obedience to his genius ; only by the
freest activity in the way constitutional to
him, does an angel seem to arise before a
man, and lead him by the hand out of all
the wards of the prison.
That which befits us, embosomed in
beauty and wonder as we are, is cheerful-
ness and courage, and the endeavour to
realize our aspirations. The life of man
is the true romance, which, when it is
valiantly conducted, will yield the imagi-
nation a higher joy than any fiction. All
around us, what powers are wrapped up
under the coarse mattings of custom, and
all wonder prevented. It is so wonderful
to our neurologists that a man can seo
without his eyes, that it does not occur to
them, that it is just as wonderful, that h(?
should see with them ; and that is ever
the difference between the wise and the
unwise : the latter wonders at what iii
unusual, the wise man wonders at tho
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,
sccaire that the future will bo worthy of
tbo past i
REPRESENTATIVE MEN
USES OF G
It is natural to believe in peat men. If
the companions of our childhood should
turn out to be heroes, and their condition
regal, it would not surprise us. All my-
thology opens with demigods, and the
circumstance is high and poetic ; that is,
their genius is paramount. In the legends
of the Gautama, the first men ate the
earth, and found it deliciously sweet.
Nature seems to exist for the excellent.
The world is upheld by the veracity of
good men : they make the earth wliole-
some. They who lived with them found
life glad and nutritious. Life is sweet
and tolerable only in our belief in such
society; and actually, or ideally, we man-
age to live with superiors. We call our
children and our lands by their names.
Their names are wrought into the verbs
of language, their works and effigies are
in our houses, and every circumstance of
the day recalls an anecdote of them.
The search after the great men is tlie
dream of youth, and the most serious
occupation of manhood. Wc travel into
foreign parts to find his works — if pos-
sible, to get a glimpse of him. But we are
put off with fortune instead. You say
the English are practical ; the Germans
are hospitable ; in Valencia, the climate
is delicious ; and in the hills of the Sacra-
mento, there is gold for the gathering.
Yes, but I do not travel to find comfort-
able, rich, and hospitable people, or clear
sky, or ingots that cost too much. But if
there were any magnet that would point
to the countries and houses where are the
persons who are intrinsically rich and
powerful, I would sell all, and buy it, and
put myself on the road to-day.
The race goes with us on their credit.
The knowledge that in the city is a man
who invented the railroad, raises the
credit of all the citizens. But enormous
populations, if they be beggars, are dis-
gusting, like moving cheese, like hills of
wits, or of flea^the more, the worse,
REAT MEN.
Our religion is the love and cherishing
of these patrons. The gods of fable are
the shining moments of great men. We
run all our vessels into one mould. Ouf
colossal theologies of Judaism, Christisrn,
Buddhism, Mahometism, are the neces-
sary and structural action of the human
mind. The student of history is like a
man going into a warehouse to buy cloths
or carpets. He fancies he has a new
article. If he go to the factory, he shall
find that his new stuff still repeats the
scrolls and rosettes which are found on
the interior walls of the pyramids oi
Thebes. Our theism is the purificatiof
of the human mind. Man can paint, or
make, or think nothing but man, Ha
believes that the great material elements
had their origin from his thought. And
our philosophy finds one essence col-
lected or distributed.
1
If now we proceed to inquire into the
kinds of service we derive from others,
let us be warned of the danger of modern
studies, and begin low enough. We must
not contend against love, or deny the sub-
stantial existence of other people. I know
not what would happen to us. We have
social strengths. Our affection towards
others creates a sort of vantage or pur-
chase which nothing will supply. I can
do that by another which I cannot do
alone. I can say to you what I cannot
first say to myself. Other men are lenses
through which we read our own minds.
Each man seeks those of different quality
from his own, and such as are good of
their kind ; that is, he seeks other men,
and the otherest. The stronger the nature,
the more it is reactive. Let us have the
quality pure. A little genius let us leave
alone. A main difference betwixt men is,
whether they attend their own affair or
not. Man is the noble endogenous plant
which grows, like the palm, from within
outward, His own affair, though iinpos»
REPRESENTATIVE MEN.
162
•ible to others, he can open with celerity
and in sport. It is easy to sugar to be
sweet, and to nitre to be salt; We take a
great deal of pains to waylay and entrap
that which of itself will fall into our
hands. I count him a great man who in-
habits a higher sphere of thought, into
which other men rise with labour and
difficulty; he has but to open his eyes to
see things in a true light, and in large
relations ; whilst they must make painful
corrections, and keep a vigilant eye on
many sources of error. His service to us
ifi of like sort. It costs a beautiful person
no exertion to paint her image on our
eyes ; yet how splendid is that benefit !
It costs no more for a wise soul to convey
his quality to other men. And everyone
can do his best thing easiest. “Pew dc
tnoyens, beaticoup d'cjfety He is great
who is what he is from nature, and who
never reminds us of others.
But he must bo related to us, and our
life receive from him some promise of
explanation. I cannot tell what I would
know*, but I have observed there are
persons who, in their character and
actions, answer questions which I have not
skill to put. One man answers some ques-
tion v/hich none of his contemponirics
put, and is isolated. The past and pass-
ing religions and philosophies answer
some other question. Certain men affect
us as rich possibilities, but helpless to
themselves and to their times — tlie sport,
perhaps, of some instinct that rules in the
air ; they do not speak to our want. But
the great are near; we know them at
sight. They satisfy expectation, and fall
into place. What is good is effective,
generative; makes for itself room, food,
and allies. A sound apple produces seed
—a hybrid does not. Is a man in his
place, he is constructive, fertile, magnetic,
inundating armies with his purpose, which
is thus executed. The river makes its
own shores, and each legitimate idea
makes its own channels and welcome —
harvests for food, institutions for expres-
sion, weapons to fight with, and disciples
to explain it. The true artist has the
planet for his pedestal; the adventurer,
after years of strife, has nothing broader
than his own shoes.
Our common discourse respects tw’o
kinds of use or service from superior men.
Direct giving is agreeable to the early
belief of men; direct giving of material
or metaphysical aid, as of health, eternal
you*h, fine senses, arts of healing,
magical power, and prophecy, The boy
believes there is a teacher who can ttcIJ
him wisdom. Chjirches believe in im-
puted merit. But, in strictness, we are
not much cognizant of direct serving.
Man is endogenous, and education is his
unfolding. The aid we have from others
is mechanical, compared with the dis-
coveries of nature in us. What is thus
learned is delightful in tho doing, and the
effect remains. Right ethics are central,
and go from the soul outward. Gift is
contrary to the law of the universe. Serv-
ing others is serving us. I must absolve
me to m3*self. “Mind thy affair,” says
the spirit : “ coxcomb, would you meddle
with the skies, or with other people ? '*
Indirect service is left. Men have a pic-
torial or representative quality, and serve
us in the intellect. Behmen and Sweden-
borg saw that things were representative.
Men are also representative ; first, of
things, and secondly, of ideas.
As plants convert the minerals into
food for animals, so each man converts
some raw material in nature to human
use. Tiie inventors of fire, electricity,
magnetism, iron, lead, glass, linen, silk,
cotton ; the makers of tools ; the inventor
of decimal notation; the geometer; tho
engineer; the musician, — severally make
an easy way for all, through unknown
and impossible confusions. Each man is,
Dy secret liking, connected with some
district of nature, whose agent and inter-
preter he is, as Linnauis, of plants;
Huber, of bees ; Fries, of lichens ; Van
Mons, of pears ; Dalton, of atomic forms ;
Euclid, of lines ; Newton of fluxions.
A man is a centre for nature, running
out threads of relation through every-
thing, fluid and solid, material and
elemental. The earth rolls; every clod
and stone comes to the meridian: so
every organ, function, acid, crystal, grain
of dust, has its relation to the brain. It
waits long, but its turn comes. Each
plant has its parasite, and each created
thing its lover and poet. Justice has
already been done to steam, to iron, to
wood, to coal, to loadstone, to iodine, to
corn, and cotton : but how few materials
are yet used by our arts ! The mass of
creatures .and of qualities are still hid and
expectant. It would seem as if each
wait^al, like the enchanted princess ia
fairy tales, for a destined human deliverer,
Ivach must be disenchanted, and walk
forth to the day in human shape. In the
history of discovery, the ripe and latent
truth seems to have fashioned a brain for
itself, A magnet must bo made man,
USES OF GREAT MEN.
In some Gilbert, or Swedenborg, or
Oersted, before the general mind can
come to entertain its powers.
If we limit ourselves to the first advan-
tages — a sober grace adheres to the
mineral and botanic kingdoms, which, in
the highest moments, comes up as the
charm of nature the glitter of the spar,
the sureness of afilriity, the veracity of
angles. Light and darkness, heat and
cold, hunger and food, sweet and sour,
solid, liquid, and gas, circle us round in a
wreath of pleasures, and, by their agree-
able quarrel, beguile the day of life. The
eye repeats every day the first eulogy on
things — “ He saw that they were good.”
We know where to find them ; and these
performers are relished all the more,
after a little experiemee of the pretend-
ing races. We are entitled, also, to higher
advantages. Something is wanting to
science, unlil it has been humanised.
The table of logarithms is one thing, and
its vital play in botany, music, optics, and
architecture, another. There are advance-
ments to numbers, anatomy, architecture,
astronomy, little suspected at first, when,
by union with intellect and will, they
ascend into the life and reappear in con-
versation, character, and politics.
Hut this comes later. We speak now
only of our acquaintance with them in
their own sphere, and the way in which
they seem to fascinate and draw to them
some genius who occupies himself with
one thing, all his life long. The possi-
bility of interpret^ition lies in the identity
of the observer with the observed. Each
material thing has its celestial side ; has
its translation, through humanity, into
the spiritual and necessary sphere, where
it plays a part as indestructible as any
other. And to these, their ends, all
things continually ascend. The gases
gather to the solid firmament: thechemic
lump arrives at the plant, and grows;
arrives at the quadruped, and walks ;
arrives at the man, and thinks. But also
the constituency determines the vote of
the representative. He is not only re-
presentative, but participant. Like can
only be known by like. The reason why
he knows about them is, that he is of
them ; he has just come out of nature, or
from being a part of that thing. Animated
chlorine knows of chlorine, and incarnate
zinc, of zinc. Their quality makes his
career ; and he can variously publish
their virtues, because they compose him.
Man, made of the dust of the world, does
not forget his origin ; and all that is yet
163
inanimate will one day speak and reason.
Unpublished nature will have its whole
secret told. Shall we say that quartz
mountains will pulverize into innumerable
Werners, Von Buchs, and Beaumonts ;
and the laboratory of the atmosphere
holds in solution I know not what Ber-
zeliuses and Davys ?
Thus, we sit by the fire, and take hold
on the poles of the earth. This quasi
omnipresence supplies the imbecility ot
our condition. In ore of those celestial
days, when heaven and earth meet and
adorn each other, it seems a poverty that
we can only spend it once : we wish for a
thousand heads, a thousand bodies, that
we might celebrate .ts immense beauty in
many ways and piaces. Is this fancy i
Well, in good faith, we are multiplied by
our proxies. How easily we adopt their
labours ! Every ship that comes to
America got its chart from Columbus.
Every novel is a debtor to Homer. Every
carpenter who shaves with a foreplana
borrows the genius of a forgotten in-
ventor. Life is girt all round with a
zodiac of sciences, tlie contributions of
men who have perished to add their point
of light to our sky. Engineer, broker,
jurist, physician, moralist, theologian,
and every man, inasmuch as he has any
science, is a definer and map-maker of
the latitudes and longitudes of our con-
dition. These road-makers on every hand
enrich us. We must extend the area of
life, and multiply our relations. We are
as much gainers by finding a new pro-
perty in the old earth, as by acquiring a
new planet.
We are too passive in the reception of
these material or semi-material aids. Wa
must not be sacks and stomachs. To
ascend one step — we are better served
through our sympathy. Activity is con-
tagious. Looking where others look, and
conversing with the same things, we catch
the charm which lured them. Napoleon
said, ” You must not fight too often with
one enemy, or you will teach him all you!
art of war.” Talk much with any man of
vigorous mind, and we acquire very fast
the habit of looking at things in the sama
light, and, on each occurrence, we antici*
pate his thought.
Men are helpful through the intellect
and the affections. Other help, I find a
false appearance. If you affect to give
me bread and fire, I perceive that I pay
for it the full price, and at last it leaves
me as it found me, neither better nor
worse : but all mental and moral fo%e is
REPRESENTATIVE MEN,
164
R positive good. It goes out from you,|
whether you will or not, and profits mej
whom you never thought of, I cannot
even hear of personal vigour of any kind,
jreat power of performance, without fresh
?esolution. We are emulous of all that
man can do. Cecil’s saying of Sir Walter
Raleigh, " I know that he can toil terri-
nly,” is an electric touch. So are Claren-
don’s portraits — of Hampden ; “ who was
of an industry and vigilance not to be
tired out or wearied by the most laborious,
and of parts not to be imposed on by the
most subtle and sharp, and of a personal
courage equal to his best parts ” — of
Falkland ; “ who was so severe an adorer
of truth, that he could as easily have
given himself leave to steal, as to dis-
semble,^' We cannot read Plutarch,
without a tingling of th blood ; and I
accept the saying of the Chinese Mencius :
“ A sage is the instructor of a hundred
ages. When the manners of Loo are
heard of, the stupid become intelligent,
and the wavering determined.”
This is the moral of biography ; yet it
is hard for departed men to touch the
quick like our own companions, whose
names may not last as long. What is
he whom I never think of ? whilst in
every solitude are those who succour our
genius, and stimulate us in wonderful
manners.
