The Complete Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson (2024)

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{{Template}}The Complete Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson by Ralph Waldo Emerson

VOLUME I.

ESSAYS.I.-HISTORY.There is no great and no small To the Soul that maketh all:And where it cometh, all things are:And it cometh everywhere.I am owner of the sphere,Ofthe seven stars and the solar year,Of Cæsar's hand, and Plato's brain,Of Lord Christ's heart, and Shakespeare's strain.THERE HERE is one mind common to all individual men. Every Hethat is once admitted to the right of reason is made a free- man of the whole estate. What Plato has thought he maythink; what a saint has felt he may feel; what at any timehas befallen any man he can understand. Who hath accessto 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 geniusis illustrated by the entire series of days. Man is explicableby nothing less than all his history. Without hurry, withoutrest, the human spirit goes forth from the beginning toembody every faculty, every thought, every emotion, whichbelongs to it in appropriate events. But the thought is alwaysprior to the fact; all the facts of history pre-exist in the mindas laws. Each law in turn is made by circ*mstances predominant, and the limits of nature give power to but one at a time.A man is the whole encyclopædia of facts. The creation of athousand forests is in one acorn; and Egypt, Greece, Rome,Gaul, Britain, America, lie folded already in the first man.Epoch after epoch, camp, kingdom, empire, republic, democracy, are merely the application of his manifold spirit to the manifold world.This human mind wrote history, and this must read it. TheSphinx must solve her own riddle. If the whole of history isin one man, it is all to be explained from individual experience.There is a relation between the hours of our life and thecenturies of time. As the air I breathe is drawn from theVOL. I. B2 ESSAY I.great repositories of nature, as the light on my book is yielded by a star a hundred millions of miles distant, as the poise of my body depends on the equilibrium of centrifugal and centripetal forces, so the hours should be instructed by the ages,and the ages explained by the hours. Of the universal mindeach individual man is one more incarnation. All its properties consist in him. Each newfact in his private experienceflashes 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 samethought occurs to another man it is the key to that era.Every reform was once a private opinion, and when it shall bea private opinion, again it will solve the problem of the age.The fact narrated must correspond to something in me to becredible or intelligible. We as we read must become Greeks,Romans, Turks, priest and king, martyr and executioner, mustfasten these images to some reality in our secret experience,or we shall learn nothing rightly. What befel Asdrubal orCæsar Borgia is as much an illustration of the mind's powersand depravations as what has befallen us. Each new law andpolitical movement has meaning for you. Stand before eachof its tablets and say, " Under this mask did my Proteus nature hide itself." This remedies the defect of our too greatnearness to ourselves. This throws our actions into perspective; and as crabs, goats, scorpions, the balance, and thewaterpot lose their meanness when hung as signs inthe zodiac,so I can see my own vices without heat in the distant persons of Solomon, Alcibiades, and Catiline.It is the universal nature which gives worth to particularmen and things. Human life as containing this is mysteriousand inviolable, and we hedge it round with penalties and laws.All laws derive hence their ultimate reason; all express moreor less distinctly some command of this supreme, illimitableessence. Property also holds of the soul, covers great spiritualfacts, and instinctively we at first hold to it with swords andlaws, and wide and complex combinations. The obscure consciousness of this fact is the light of all our day, the claim ofclaims; the plea for education, for justice, for charity, thefoundation of friendship and love, and of the heroism andgrandeur which belong to acts of self-reliance. It is remarkable that involuntarily we always read as superior beings.Universal history, the poets, the romancers, do not in theirstateliest pictures-in the sacerdotal, the imperial palaces, inthe triumphs of will or of genius-anywhere lose our ear,anywhere make us feel that we intrude, that this is for bettermen; but rather is it true, that in their grandest strokes wefeel most at home. All that Shakespeare says of the king,HISTORY. 3yonder slip of a boy that reads in the corner feels to be true ofhimself. We sympathize in the great moments of history, inthe great discoveries, the great resistances, the great prosperities of men; --because there law was enacted, the sea wassearched, the land was found, or the blow was struck for us, aswe ourselves in that place would have done or applauded.We have the same interest in condition and character. Wehonour the rich, because 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 oriental, ormodern essayist, describes to each reader his own idea, describes his unattained but attainable self. All literature writes the character of the wise man. Books, monuments, pictures,conversation, are portraits in which he finds the lineaments heis forming. The silent and the eloquent praise him and accost him, and he is stimulated wherever he moves as by personalallusions . A true aspirant, therefore, never needs look forallusions personal and laudatory in discourse. He hears the commendation, not of himself, but more sweet, of that character he seeks, in every word that is said concerning character,yea, further, in every fact and circ*mstance- in the running river and the rustling corn. Praise is looked, homage tendered,love flows from mute nature, from the mountains and thelights of the firmament.These hints, dropped as it were from sleep and night, let ususe in broad day. The student is to read history actively andnot passively; to esteem his own life the text, and books the commentary. Thus compelled, the Muse of history will utteroracles, as never to those who do not respect themselves. Ihave no expectation that any man will read history aright,who thinks that what was done in a remote age, by men whosenames have resounded far, has any deeper sense than what heis doing to-day.The world exists for the education of each man. There isno age, or state of society, or mode of action in history, towhich there is not somewhat corresponding in his life. Everything tends in a wonderful manner to abbreviate itself andyield its own virtue to him. He should see that he can live allhistory in his own person. He must sit solidly at home, andnot suffer himself to be bullied by kings or empires, but knowthat he is greater than all the geography and all the government of the world; he must transfer the point of view fromwhich history is commonly read, from Rome, and Athens, andLondon, to himself, and not deny his conviction that he is thecourt, and if England or Egypt have anything to say to him, he will try the case; if not, let them for ever be silent. He mustattain and maintain that lofty sight where facts yield their4 ESSAY I.secret sense, and poetry and annals are alike. The instinct ofthe mind, the purpose of nature, betrays itself in the use wemake of the signal narrations of history. Time dissipates toshining ether the solid angularity of facts. No anchor, nocable, no fences, avail to keep a fact a fact. Babylon, Troy,Tyre, Palestine, and even early Rome, are passing already intofiction. The Garden of Eden, the sun standing still in Gibeon,is poetry thenceforward to all nations. Who cares what thefact was, when we have made a constellation of it to hang inheaven an immortal sign? London and Paris and New Yorkmust go the same way. "What is History," said Napoleon,"but a fable agreed upon?" This life of ours is stuck roundwith Egypt, Greece, Gaul, England, War, Colonization, Church,Court, and Commerce, as with so many flowers and wildornaments grave and gay. I will not make more account ofthem. I believe in Eternity. I can find Greece, Asia, Italy,Spain, and the Islands-the genius and creative principle ofeach 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. Allhistory becomes subjective; in other words, there is properly no history; only biography. Every mind must know thewhole lesson for itself—must go over the whole ground.What it does not see, what it does not live, it will not know.What the former age has epitomized into a formula or rulefor manipular convenience, it will lose all the good of verifying for itself, by means of the wall of that rule. Somewhere,sometime, it will demand and find compensation for that lossby doing the work itself. Ferguson discovered many things in astronomy which had long been known. The better for him.History must be this or it is nothing. Every law which the state enacts indicates a fact in human nature; that is all.We must in ourselves see the necessary reason of every fact-see how it could and must be. So stand before every publicand private work; before an oration of Burke, before a victoryof Napoleon, before a martyrdom of Sir Thomas More, ofSidney, of Marmaduke Robinson, before a French Reign of Terror, and a Salem hanging of witches, before a fanaticRevival, and the Animal Magnetism in Paris or in Providence.We assume that we under like influence should be alikeaffected, and should achieve the like; and we aim to masterintellectually the steps, and reach the same height or the same degradation, that our fellow, our proxy, has done.All inquiry into antiquity -all curiosity respecting thePyramids, the excavated cities, Stonehenge, the Ohio Circles,Mexico, Memphis-is the desire to do away this wild, savage,HISTORY. 5and preposterous There or Then, and introduce in its place the Here and the Now. Belzoni digs and measures in the mummy-pits and pyramids of Thebes, until he can see the endof the difference between the monstrous work and himself.When he has satisfied himself, in general and in detail, that itwas made by such a person as he, so armed and so motived,and to ends to which he himself should also have worked, theproblem is solved; his thought lives along the whole line oftemples, and sphinxes, and catacombs, passes through them all with satisfaction, and they live again to the mind, or are now .A Gothic cathedral affirms that it was done by us, and notdone by us. Surely it was by man, but we find it not in our man. But we apply ourselves to the history of its production.We put ourselves into the place and state of the builder. We remember the 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, itsprocessions, its Saints' days and image-worship, we have, as it were, been the man that made the minster; we have seen how it could and must be. We have the sufficient reason.The difference between men is in their principle of association. Some men classify objects by colour and size and otheraccidents of appearance; others by intrinsic likeness, or bythe relation of cause and effect. The progress of the intellectis to the clearer vision of causes, which neglects surface differences. To the poet, to the philosopher, to the saint, allthings are friendly and sacred, all events profitable, all daysholy, all men divine. For the eye is fastened on the life,and slights the circ*mstance. Every chemical substance,every plant, every animal in its growth, teaches the unity ofcause, the variety of appearance.Upborne and surrounded as we are by this all- creatingnature, soft and fluid as a cloud or the air, why should we be such hard pedants, and magnify a few forms? Why shouldwe make account of time, or of magnitude, or of figure? Thesoul knows them not, and genius, obeying its law, knows howto play with them as a young child plays with greybeards and in churches. Genius studies the casual thought, and, far backin the womb of things, sees the rays parting from one orb,that diverge ere they fall by infinite diameters. Geniuswatches the monad through all his masks as he performs themetempsychosis of nature. Genius detects through the fly,through the caterpillar, through the grub, through the egg,the constant individual; through countless individuals, the6 ESSAY I.fixed species; through many species, the genus; through all genera, the steadfast type; through all the kingdoms of organized life, the eternal unity. Nature is a mutable cloud, which is always and never the same. She casts the same thoughtinto troops of forms, as a poet makes twenty fables with onemoral. Through the bruteness and toughness of matter, asubtle spirit bends all things to its own will. The adamantstreams into soft but precise form before it, and, whilst I lookat it, its outline and texture are changed again. Nothing is sofleeting as form; yet never does it quite deny itself. In man we still trace the remains or hints of all that we esteembadges of servitude in the lower races; yet in him theyenhance his nobleness and grace; as Io, in Eschylus, transformed to a cow, offends the imagination; but how changed,when as Isis in Egypt she meets Osiris- Jove, a beautiful woman, with nothing of the metamorphosis left but the lunarhorns as the splendid ornament of her brows!How manyThe identity of history is equally intrinsic, the diversity equally obvious. There is at the surface infinite variety ofthings; at the centre there is simplicity of cause.are the acts of one man in which we recognise the samecharacter! Observe the sources of our information in respectto the Greek genius. We have the civil history of that people,as Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon, and Plutarch havegiven it; a very sufficient account of what manner of persons they were, and what they did. We have the same nationalmind expressed for us again in their literature, in epic andlyric poems, drama, and philosophy; a very complete form.Then we have it once more in their architecture, a beauty as of temperance itself, limited to the straight line and the square,-a builded geometry. Then we have it once again insculpture, the tongue on the balance of expression," a multitude of forms in the utmost freedom of action, and nevertransgressing 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 ofone remarkable people, we have a fourfold representation;and to the senses what more unlike than an ode of Pindar, amarble centaur, the peristyle of the Parthenon, and the last actions of Phocion?Every one must have observed faces and forms which, without any resembling feature, make a like impression on the beholder. A particular picture or copy of verses, if it do notawaken the same train of images, will yet superinduce thesame sentiment as some wild mountain walk, although the resemblance is nowise obvious to the senses, but is occult andHISTORY. 7out of the reach of the understanding. Nature is an endless combination and repetition of a very few laws. She hums theold well- known air through innumerable variations.Nature is full of a sublime family likeness throughout her works; and delights in startling us with resemblances in themost unexpected quarters. I have seen the head of an oldsachem of the forest, which at once reminded the eye of a baldmountain summit, and the furrows of the brow suggested the strata of the rock. There are men whose manners have thesame essential splendour as the simple and awful sculpture on the friezes of the Parthenon, and the remains of the earliestGreek art. And there are compositions of the same strain tobe found in the books of all ages. What is Guido's RospigliosiAurora but a morning thought, as the horses in it are only amorning cloud. If any one will but take pains to observe thevariety of actions to which he is equally inclined in certain moods of mind, and those to which he is averse, he will seehow deep is the chain of affinity.A painter told me that nobody could draw a tree without in some sort becoming a tree; or draw a child by studying the outlines of its form merely-but, by watching for a time his motions and plays, the painter enters into his nature, and can then draw him at will in every attitude. So Roos " entered into the inmost nature of a sheep. " I knew a draughtsmanemployed in a public survey, who found that he could not sketch the rocks until their geological structure was firstexplained to him. In a certain state of thought is the common origin of very diverse works. It is the spirit and not the fact that is identical. By a deeper apprehension, and not primarilyby a painful acquisition of many manual skills, the artist attains the power of awakening other souls to a given activity.It has been said, that " common souls pay with what they do-nobler souls with that which they are." And why?Because a profound nature awakens in us by its actions and words, by its very looks and manners, the same power and beauty that a gallery of sculpture, or of pictures, addresses.Civil and natural history, the history of art and of literature,must be explained from individual history, or must remainwords. 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 theDome of St. Peter's are lame copies after a divine model.Strasburg Cathedral is a material counterpart of the soul ofErwin of Steinbach. The true poem is the poet's mind; thetrue ship is the shipbuilder. In the man, could we lay him open, we should see the reason for the last flourish and tendrilof his work; as every spine and tint in the sea- shell pre- exist8 ESSAY I.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 ofnobility could ever add.The trivial experience of every day is always verifying someold prediction to us, and converting into things the words andsigns which we had heard and seen without heed. A lady,with whom I was riding in the forest, said to me that thewoods always seemed to her to wait, as if the genii who inhabit them suspended their deeds until the wayfarer has passed onward; a thought which poetry has celebrated in the danceof the fairies, which breaks off on the approach of human feet.The man who has seen the rising moon break out of the cloudsat midnight has been present like an archangel at the creationof light and of the world. I remember one summer day, inthe fields, my companion pointed out to me a broad cloud,which might extend a quarter of a mile parallel to the horizon,quite accurately in the form of a cherub as painted over churches-a round block in the centre, which it was easy toanimate with eyes and mouth, supported on either side bywide-stretched symmetrical wings. What appears once in theatmosphere may appear often, and it was undoubtedly thearchetype of that familiar ornament. I have seen in the sky a chain of summer lightning which at once showed to me thatthe Greeks drew from nature when they painted the thunderbolt in the hand of Jove. I have seen a snow-drift along thesides of the stone wall, which obviously gave the idea of the common architectural scroll to abut a tower.66By surrounding ourselves with the original circ*mstances,we invent anew the orders and the ornaments of architecture,as we see how each people merely decorated its primitiveabodes. The Doric temple preserves the semblance of the wooden cabin in which the Dorian dwelt. The Chinese pagodais plainly a Tartar tent. The Indian and Egyptian temples still betray the mounds and subterranean houses of their fore- fathers. "The custom of making houses and tombs in theliving rock," says Heeren, in his ' Researches on the Ethiopians,'determined very naturally the principal character of theNubian Egyptian architecture to the colossal form which itassumed. In these caverns, already prepared by nature, theeye was accustomed to dwell on huge shapes and masses, so that, when art came to the assistance of nature, it could notmove on a small scale without degrading itself. What would statues of the usual size, or neat porches and wings, have been,associated with those gigantic halls before which only Colossicould sit as watchmen, or lean on the pillars of the interior? "The Gothic church plainly originated in a rude adaptationHISTORY. 9of the forest trees with all their boughs to a festal or solemnarcade, as the bands about the cleft pillars still indicate the green withes that tied them. No one can walk in a road cutthrough pine woods, without being struck with the architec- tural appearance of the grove, especially in winter, when the barrenness of all other trees shows the low arch of the Saxons.In the woods in a winter afternoon one will see as readily theorigin of the stained glass window, with which the Gothiccathedrals are adorned, in the colours of the western sky seenthrough the bare and crossing branches of the forest. Nor can any lover of nature enter the old piles of Oxford and theEnglish cathedrals, without feeling that the forest overpoweredthe mind of the builder, and that his chisel, his saw, and planestill 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 ofgranite blooms into an eternal flower, with the lightness and delicate finish, as well as the aerial proportions and perspective,of vegetable beauty.In like manner, all public facts are to be individualized, allprivate facts are to be generalized. Then at once History becomes fluid and true, and Biography deep and sublime. Asthe Persian imitated in the slender shafts and capitals of hisarchitecture the stem and flower of the lotus and palm, so the Persian court in its magnificent era never gave over thenomadism 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 andAgriculture are the two antagonist facts. The geography of Asia and of Africa necessitated a nomadic life. But thenomads were the terror of all those whom the soil, or the advantages of a market, had induced to build towns. Agriculture,therefore, was a religious injunction, because of the perils of the state from nomadism. And in these late and civil countriesof England and America, these propensities still fight out the old battle in the nation and in the individual. The nomads ofAfrica were constrained to wander by the attacks of the gadfly, which drives the cattle mad, and so compels the tribe toemigrate in the rainy season, and to drive off the cattle to thehigher sandy regions. The nomads of Asia follow the pas- turage from month to month. In America and Europe the nomadism is of trade and curiosity; a progress, certainly,from the gad-fly of Astaboras to the Anglo- and Italo- mania of Boston Bay. Sacred cities, to which a periodical religiouspilgrimage was enjoined, or stringent laws and customs, tend-10 ESSAY I.ing to invigorate the national bond, were the check on the old rovers; and the cumulative values of long residence are therestraints on the itineracy of the present day. The antago nism of the two tendencies is not less active in individuals, asthe love of adventure or the love of repose happens to predominate. A man of rude health and flowing spirits has thefaculty of rapid domestication, lives in his waggon, and roamsthrough all latitudes as easily as a Calmuc. At sea, or in theforest, or in the snow, he sleeps as warm, dines with as goodappetite, 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 ofinterest wherever fresh objects meet his eyes. The pastoralnations were needy and hungry to desperation; and this in- tellectual nomadism, in its excess, bankrupts the mind, throughthe dissipation of power on a miscellany of objects. Thehome-keeping wit, on the other hand, is that continence or content which finds all the elements of life in its own soil;and which has its own perils of monotony and deterioration, ifnot stimulated by foreign infusions.Everything the individual sees without him corresponds to his states of mind, and everything is in turn intelligible tohim , 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 research- ing fingers in catacombs, libraries, and the broken reliefs and torsos of ruined villas.What is the foundation of that interest all men feel inGreek history, letters, art, and poetry, in all its periods, from the Heroic or Homeric age down to the domestic life of theAthenians and Spartans, four or five centuries later? Whatbut this, that every man passes personally through a Grecianperiod. The Grecian state is the era of the bodily nature, theperfection of the senses-of the spiritual nature unfolded instrict unity with the body. In it existed those human formswhich supplied the sculptor with his models of Hercules,Phoebus, and Jove; not like the forms abounding in the streets of modern cities, wherein the face is a confused blur offeatures, but composed of incorrupt, sharply defined, andsymmetrical features, whose eye- sockets are so formed that itwould be impossible for such eyes to squint, and take furtiveglances 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, abroad chest. Luxury and elegance are not known. A sparseHISTORY. 116population and want make every man his own valet, cook,butcher, and soldier, and the habit of supplying his own needseducates the body to wonderful performances. Such are the Agamemnon and Diomed of Homer, and not far different is thepicture Xenophon gives of himself and his compatriots in the Retreat of the Ten Thousand.' "After the army had crossedthe river Teleboas in Armenia, there fell much snow, and thetroops lay miserably on the ground covered with it. ButXenophon arose naked, and, taking an axe, began to splitwood; whereupon others rose and did the like. " Throughouthis army exists a boundless liberty of speech. They quarrel for plunder, they wrangle with the generals on each neworder, and Xenophon is as sharp-tongued as any, and sharper- tongued than most, and so gives as good as he gets. Whcdoes not see that this is a gang of great boys, with such a codeof honour and such lax discipline as great boys have?The costly charm of the ancient tragedy, and indeed of all the old literature, is, that the persons speak simply-speakas persons who have great good sense without knowing it,before yet the reflective habit has become the predominanthabit of the mind. Our admiration of the antique is not admiration of the old, but of the natural. The Greeks are notreflective, but perfect in their senses and in their health, withthe finest physical organization in the world. Adults actedwith 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 allages, and are now, wherever a healthy physique exists; but, asa class, from their superior organization, they have surpassedall. They combine the energy of manhood with the engaging unconsciousness of childhood. The attraction of these mannersis that they belong to man, and are known to every man invirtue of his being once a child; besides that there are always individuals who retain these characteristics. A person ofchildlike genius and inborn energy is still a Greek, and revives our love of the Muse of Hellas. I admire the love of naturein 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 identityof his thought. The Greek had, it seems, the same fellowbeings as I. The sun and moon, water and fire, met his heart precisely as they meet mine. Then the vaunted distinctionbetween Greek and English, between Classic and Romanticschools , seems superficial and pedantic. When a thought ofPlato becomes a thought to me—when a truth that fired the soul of Pindar fires mine, time is no more. When I feel thatwe two meet in a perception, that our two souls are tinged12 ESSAY I.with the same hue, and do, as it were, run into one, why shouldI measure degrees of latitude, why should I count Egyptianyears?The student interprets the age of chivalry by his own ageof chivalry, and the days of maritime adventure and circumnavigation by quite parallel miniature experiences of his own.To the sacred history of the world he has the same key.When the voice of a prophet out of the deeps of antiquitymerely echoes to him a sentiment of his infancy, a prayer ofhis youth, he then pierces to the truth through all the con- fusion of tradition and the caricature of institutions.Rare, extravagant spirits come by us at intervals, who dis- close to us new facts in nature. I see that men of God have,from time to time, walked among men and made their com- mission felt in the heart and soul of the commonest hearer.Hence, evidently, the tripod, the priest, the priestess, inspired by the divine afflatus.Jesus astonishes and overpowers sensual people. They can- not unite him to history, or reconcile him with themselves.As they come to revere their intuitions and aspire to liveholily, their own piety explains every fact, every word.How easily these old worships of Moses, of Zoroaster, of Menu, of Socrates, domesticate themselves in the mind. Icannot find any antiquity in them. They are mine as much as theirs.I have seen the first monks and anchorets without crossingseas or centuries. More than once some individual has appeared to me with such negligence of labour and such commanding contemplation, a haughty beneficiary, begging in the name of God, as made good to the nineteenth century Simeonthe 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 ayoung child in repressing his spirits and courage, paralyzingthe understanding, and that without producing indignation,but only fear and obedience, and even much sympathy withthe tyranny,-is a familiar fact explained to the child when hebecomes a man, only by seeing that the oppressor of his youth is himself a child tyrannized over by those names and words and forms, of whose influence he was merely the organ to theyouth. The fact teaches him how Belus was worshipped, and how the Pyramids were built, better than the discovery by Champollion of the names of all the workmen and the cost ofevery tile. He finds Assyria and the Mounds of Cholula athis door, and himself has laid the courses.Again, in that protest which each considerate person makesHISTORY. 13against the superstition of his times, he repeats step for step the part of old reformers, and in the search after truth findslike them new perils to virtue. He learns again what moralvigour is needed to supply the girdle of a superstition. A great licentiousness treads on the heels of a reformation. Howmany times in the history of the world has the Luther of theday had to lament the decay of piety in his own household!Doctor," said his wife to Martin Luther, one day, " how is itthat, whilst subject to papacy, we prayed so often and with suchfervour, whilst now we pray with the utmost coldness and very seldom?"66The advancing man discovers how deep a property he has in literature-in all fable as well as in all history. He finds that the poet was no odd fellow who described strange and impos- sible situations, but that universal man wrote by his pen aconfession true for one and true for all. His own secretbiography he finds in lines wonderfully intelligible to him,dotted down before he was born. One after another he comesup in his private adventures with every fable of Esop, of Homer, of Hafiz, of Ariosto, of Chaucer, of Scott, and verifies them with his own head and hands.The beautiful fables of the Greeks, being proper creations ofthe imagination and not of the fancy, are universal verities.What a range of meanings and what perpetual pertinence hasthe story of Prometheus! Beside its primary value as thefirst chapter of the history of Europe (the mythology thinlyveiling authentic facts, the invention of the mechanic arts, andthe migration of colonies) , it gives the history of religion withsome closeness to the faith of later ages. Prometheus is theJesus of the old mythology. He is the friend of man; standsbetween the unjust "justice " of the Eternal Father and therace of mortals, and readily suffers all things on their account.But where it departs from the Calvinistic Christianity, and exhibits him as the defier of Jove, it represents a state of mindwhich readily appears wherever the doctrine of Theism istaught in a crude, objective form, and which seems the selfdefence of man against this untruth, namely, a discontent withthe believed fact that a God exists, and a feeling that the obligation of reverence is onerous. It would steal, if it could,the fire of the Creator, and live apart from him and indepen- dent of him. The Prometheus Vinctus is the romance ofscepticism. Not less true to all time are the details of thatstately apologue. Apollo kept the flocks of Admetus, said thepoets. When the gods come among men they are not known.Jesus was not; Socrates and Shakespeare were not. Antæuswas suffocated by the gripe of Hercules, but every time hetouched his mother earth his strength was renewed. Man is14 ESSAY I.the broken giant, and, in all his weakness, both his body andhis mind are invigorated by habits of conversation with nature.The power of music, the power of poetry to unfix, and, as itwere, clap wings to solid nature, interprets the riddle ofOrpheus. The philosophical perception of identity through endless mutations of form makes him knowthe Proteus. Whatelse am I who laughed or wept yesterday, who slept last night like a corpse, and this morning stood and ran? And whatsee I on any side but the transmigrations of Proteus? I cansymbolize my thought by using the name of any creature, ofany fact, because every creature is man agent or patient.Tantalus is but a name for you and me. Tantalus means theimpossibility of drinking the waters of thought which are always gleaming and waving within sight of the soul. Thetransmigration of souls is no fable. __I would it were; but menand women are only half human. Every animal of the barnyard, the field, and the forest, of the earth and of the waters that are under the earth, has contrived to get a footing and toleave the print of its features and form in some one or otherof these upright, heaven-facing speakers. Ah! brother, stop the ebb of thy soul-ebbing downward into the forms intowhose habits thou hast now for many years slid. As near and proper to us is also that old fable of the Sphinx, who was saidto sit in the road- side and put riddles to every passenger. If the man could not answer she swallowed him alive. If hecould solve the riddle the Sphinx was slain. What is our lifebut an endless flight of winged facts or events! In splendid variety these changes come, all putting questions to the humanspirit. Those men who cannot answer by a superior wisdom these facts or questions of time, serve them. Facts encumber them, tyrannize over them, and make the men of routine the men of sense, in whom a literal obedience to facts has extinguished every spark of that light by which man is truly man.But if the man is true to his better instincts or sentiments,and refuses the dominion of facts, as one that comes of ahigher race, remains fast by the soul and sees the principle,then the facts fall aptly and supple into their places; theyknow their master, and the meanest of them glorifies him.See in Goethe's Helena the same desire that every wordshould be a thing. These figures, he would say, these Chirons,Griffins, Phorkyas, Helen, and Leda, are somewhat, and doexert a specific influence on the mind. So far then are they eternal entities, as real to-day as in the first Olympiad. Muchrevolving them, he writes out freely his humour, and givesthem body to his own imagination. And although that poembe as vague and fantastic as a dream, yet is it much more attractive than the more regular dramatic pieces of the sameHISTORY. 15author, for the reason that it operates a wonderful relief to themind from the routine of customary images-awakens thereader's invention and fancy by the wild freedom of the design,and by the unceasing succession of brisk shocks of surprise.The universal nature, too strong for the petty nature of the bard, sits on his neck and writes through his hand; so thatwhen he seems to vent a mere caprice and wild romance, theissue is an exact allegory. Hence Plato said that " poets uttergreat and wise things which they do not themselves under- stand." All the fictions of the Middle Age explain themselves as a masked or frolic expression of that which in graveearnest the mind of that period toiled to achieve. Magic, and all that is ascribed to it, is a deep presentiment of the powersof science. The shoes of swiftness, the sword of sharpness,the power of subduing the elements, of using the secret virtuesof minerals, of understanding the voices of birds, are theobscure 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 bendthe shows of things to the desires of the mind. "In Perceforest and Amadis de Gaul, a garland and a rose bloom on the head of her who is faithful, and fade on thebrow of the inconstant. In the story of the Boy and theMantle, even a mature reader may be surprised with a glow ofvirtuous pleasure at the triumph of the gentle Genelas; and,indeed, all the postulates of elfin annals-that the fairies donot like to be named; that their gifts are capricious and notto 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 ofLammermoor. Sir William Ashton is a mask for a vulgartemptation, Ravenswood Castle a fine name for proud poverty,and the foreign mission of state only a Bunyan disguise for honest industry. We may all shoot a wild bull that wouldtoss the good and beautiful, by fighting down the unjust andsensual. Lucy Ashton is another name for fidelity, which isalways beautiful and always liable to calamity in this world.But along with the civil and metaphysical history of man,another history goes daily forward-that of the externalworld-in which he is not less strictly implicated. He is the compend of time; he is also the correlative of nature. Hispower consists in the multitude of his affinities, in the factthat his life is intertwined with the whole chain of organicand inorganic being. In old Romethe public roads beginningat the Forum proceeded north, south, east, west, to the centre16 ESSAY I.of every province of the empire, making each market-town ofPersia, Spain, and Britain pervious to the soldiers of thecapital: so out of the human heart go, as it were, highways tothe heart of every object in nature, to reduce it under the dominion of ' man. A man is a bundle of relations, a knot ofroots, whose flower and fruitage is the world. His facultiesrefer to natures out of him, and predict the world he is toinhabit, as the fins of the fish foreshow that water exists, orthe wings of an eagle in the egg presuppose air. He cannotlive without a world. Put Napoleon in an island prison, lethis faculties find no men to act on, no Alps to climb, no staketo play for, and he would beat the air and appear stupid.Transport him to large countries, dense population, complexinterests, and antagonist power, and you shall see that theman Napoleon, bounded, that is, by such a profile and outline,is not the virtual Napoleon. This is but Talbot's shadow;His substance is not here,For what you see is but the smallest part,And least proportion of humanity;But were the whole frame here,It is of such a spacious, lofty pitch,Your roof were not sufficient to contain it.Henry VI.Columbus needs a planet to shape his course upon. Newton and Laplace need myriads of ages and thick-strewn celestial areas. One may say a gravitating solar system is alreadyprophesied in the nature of Newton's mind. Not less does thebrain of Davy or of Gay-Lussac, from childhood exploring theaffinities and repulsions of particles, anticipate the laws oforganization. Does not the eye of the human embryo predictthe 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, andtemperable texture of metals, the properties of stone, water,and wood? Do not the lovely attributes of the maiden childpredict the refinements and decorations of civil society? Here also we are reminded of the action of man on man. A mindmight ponder its thought for ages, and not gain so much selfknowledge as the passion of love shall teach it in a day. Whoknows himself before he has been thrilled with indignation atan outrage, or has heard an eloquent tongue, or has shared the throb of thousands in a national exultation or alarm?man can antedate his experience, or guess what faculty orfeeling a new object shall unlock, any more than he can drawto-day the face of a person whom he shall see to-morrow for the first time.NoI will not now go behind the general statement to exploreHISTORY. 17the reason of this correspondency. Let it suffice that inthe light of these two facts, namely, that the mind is One,and that nature is its correlative, history is to be read and written.Thus in all ways does the soul concentrate and reproduce itstreasures for each pupil. He, too, shall pass through the whole cycle of experience. He shall collect into a focus therays of nature. History no longer shall be a dull book. It shall walk incarnate in every just and wise man. You shallnot tell me by languages and titles a catalogue of the volumesyou have read. You shall make me feel what periods you have lived. A man shall be the Temple of Fame. He shallwalk, as the poets have described that goddess, in a robe painted all over with wonderful events and experiences; -hisown form and features by their exalted intelligence shall be that variegated vest. I shall find in him the Foreworld; in his childhood the Age of Gold; the Apples of Knowledge; theArgonautic Expedition; the calling of Abraham; the buildingof the Temple; the Advent of Christ; Dark Ages; the Revival of Letters; the Reformation; the discovery of newlands; the opening of new sciences, and new regions in man.He shall be the priest of Pan, and bring with him into humble cottages the blessing of the morning stars and all the recorded benefits of heaven and earth.Is there somewhat overweening in this claim? Then Ireject all I have written, for what is the use of pretending to know what we know not? But it is the fault of our rhetoricthat 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, thefungus under foot, the lichen on the log. What do I know sympathetically, morally, of either of these worlds of life? Asold as the Caucasian man, -perhaps older, these creatureshave kept their counsel beside him, and there is no record ofany word or sign that has passed from one to the other.What connection do the books show between the fifty or sixtychemical elements, and the historical eras? Nay, what does history yet record of the metaphysical annals of man? Whatlight does it shed on those mysteries which we hide under thenames Death and Immortality? Yet every history should be written in a wisdom which divined the range of our affinitiesand looked at facts as symbols. I am ashamed to see what ashallow village tale our so- called History is. How manytimes we must say Rome, and Paris, and Constantinople!What does Rome knowof rat and lizard? What are Olympiadsand Consulates to these neighbouring systems of being? Nay,what food or experience or succour have they for the Esquimaux VOL. I. C18 ESSAY II.seal-hunter, for the Kanaka in his canoe, for the fisherman,the stevedore, the porter?Broader and deeper we must write our annals, —from an ethical reformation, from an influx of the ever new, eversanative conscience, -if we would trulier express our centraland wide-related nature, instead of this old chronology ofselfishness and pride to which we have too long lent our eyes.Already that day exists for us, shines in on us at unawares,but the path of science and of letters is not the way into nature. The idiot, the Indian, the child, and unschooledfarmer's boy, stand nearer to the light by which nature is to be read, than the dissector or the antiquary.III. SELF-RELIANCE.Ne te quæsiveris extra.Man is his own star; and the soul that can Render an honest and a perfect man,Commands all light, all influence, all fate;Nothing to him falls early or too late.Our acts our angel are, or good or ill,Our fatal shadows that walk by us still.Epilogue to Beaumont and Fletcher's Honest Man's Fortune.Cast the bantling on the rocks,Suckle him with the she-wolf's teat;Wintered with the hawk and fox,Power and speed be hands and feet.READ the other day some verses written by an eminent painter which were original and not conventional. Thesoul always hears an admonition in such lines, let the subjectbe what it may. The sentiment they instil is of more value thanany thought they may contain. To believe your own thought,to believe that what is true for you in your private heart istrue for all men, -that is genius. Speak your latent con- viction, and it shall be the universal sense; for the inmost indue time becomes the outmost, -and our first thought isrendered back to us by the trumpets of the Last Judgment.Familiar as the voice of the mind is to each, the highest meritwe ascribe to Moses, Plato, and Milton is, that they set atnaught books and traditions, and spoke not what men butwhat they thought. A man should learn to detect and watchthat gleam of light which flashes across his mind from within,more than the lustre of the firmament of bards and sages.Yet he dismisses without notice his thought, because it is his.SELF-RELIANCE. 19In every work of genius we recognize our own rejected thoughts: they come back to us with a certain alienatedmajesty. Great works of art have no more affecting lesson for us than this. They teach us to abide by our spontaneous impression with good- humoured inflexibility then most when 'the whole cry of voices is on the other side. Else, to-morrow a stranger will say with masterly good sense precisely what we have thought and felt all the time, and we shall be forced to take with shame our own opinion from another.There is a time in every man's education when he arrives atthe conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that he must take himself for better, for worse, as hisportion; that though the wide universe is full of good, nokernel of nourishing corn can come to him but through histoil bestowed on that plot of ground which is given to him totill. 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, onecharacter, one fact, makes much impression on him, and another none. This sculpture in the memory is not withoutpre- established harmony. The eye was placed where one rayshould fall, that it might testify of that particular ray. We but half express ourselves, and are ashamed of that divine ideawhich each of us represents. It may be safely trusted asproportionate and of good issues, so it be faithfully imparted,but God will not have his work made manifest by cowards.Aman is relieved and gay when he has put his heart into his work and done his best; but what he has said or doneotherwise, shall give him no peace. It is a deliverance whichdoes not deliver. In the attempt his genius deserts him; nomuse befriends; no invention, no hope.Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string. Acceptthe place the divine providence has found for you, the society of your contemporaries, the connection of events. Great menhave always done so, and confided themselves childlike to thegenius of their age, betraying their perception that the absolutely trustworthy was seated at their heart, working through their hands, predominating in all their being. And we are now men, and must accept in the highest mind the same transcendent destiny; and not minors and invalids in a pro- tected 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! Thatdivided and rebel mind, that distrust of a sentiment becauseour arithmetic has computed the strength and means opposed20 ESSAY II.to our purpose, these have not. Their mind being whole, theireye is as yet unconquered, and when we look in their faces, weare disconcerted. Infancy conforms to nobody: all conformto it, so that one babe_commonly makes four or five out of theadults who prattle and play to it. So God has armed youthand puberty and manhood no less with its own piquancy andcharm, and made it enviable and gracious and its claims notto 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 howto speak to his contemporaries. Bashfulor bold, then, he will know how to make us seniors very unnecessary.The nonchalance of boys who are sure of a dinner, and would disdain as much as a lord to do or say aught to conciliate one, is the healthy attitude of human nature. A boy isin the parlour what the pit is in the playhouse; independent,irresponsible, looking out from his corner on such people andfacts 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 aboutconsequences, about interests; he gives an independent, genuineverdict. You must court him he does not court you. But the man is, as it were, clapped into jail by his consciousness.As soon as he has once acted or spoken with eclat, he is acommitted person, watched by the sympathy or the hatred of hundreds, whose affections must now enter into his account.There is no Lethe for this. Ah, that he could pass again intohis neutrality! Who can thus avoid all pledges, and havingobserved, observe again from the same unaffected, unbiassed,unbribable, unaffrighted innocence, must always be formidable.He would utter opinions on all passing affairs, which being seen to be not private, but necessary, would sink like dartsinto the ear of men, and put them in fear.These are the voices which we hear in solitude, but theygrow faint and inaudible as we enter into the world. Societyeverywhere is in conspiracy against the manhood of every one of its members. Society is a joint- stock company, in whichthe members agree, for the better securing of his bread toeach shareholder, to surrender the liberty and culture of theeater. The virtue in most request is conformity. Self-reliance is its aversion. It loves not realities and creators, but namesand customs.Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist. He whowould gather immortal palms must not be hindered by thename of goodness, but must explore if it be goodness. Nothingis at last sacred but the integrity of your own mind. AbsolveSELF-RELIANCE. 21you to yourself, and you shall have the suffrage of the world.I remember an answer which when quite young I was promptedto make to a valued adviser, who was wont to importune mewith the dear old doctrines of the church. On my saying,What have I to do with the sacredness of traditions, if I livewholly from within? my friend suggested, -"But these impulses may be from below, not from above. " I replied, " Theydo not seem to me to be such; but if I am the Devil's child, Iwill live then from the Devil." No law can be sacred to mebut that of my nature. Good and bad are but names veryreadily transferable to that or this; the only right is what isafter my constitution, the only wrong what is against it. Aman is to carry himself in the presence of all opposition, as ifeverything were titular and ephemeral but he. I am ashamedto think how easily we capitulate to badges and names,to large societies and dead institutions. Every decent andwell- spoken individual affects and sways me more than isright. I ought to go upright and vital, and speak the rude truth in all ways. If malice and vanity wear the coat ofphilanthropy, shall that pass? If an angry bigot assumes this bountiful cause of Abolition, and comes to me with hislast news from Barbadoes, why should I not say to him, ' Golove thy infant; love thy wood- chopper: be good- natured andmodest have that grace; and never varnish your hard,uncharitable ambition with this incredible tenderness for blackfolk a thousand miles off. Thy love afar is spite at home.'Rough and graceless would be such greeting, but truth ishandsomer than the affectation of love. Your goodness must have some edge to it, ―else it is none. The doctrine of hatredmust be preached as the counteraction of the doctrine of lovewhen that pules and whines. I shun father and mother and wife and brother, when my genius calls me. I would write onthe lintels of the door-post, Whim. I hope it is somewhatbetter than whim at last, but we cannot spend the day inexplanation. Expect me not to show cause why I seek or whyI exclude company. Then, again, do not tell me, as a goodman did to-day, of my obligation to put all poor men in goodsituations. Are they my poor? I tell thee, thou foolishphilanthropist, that I grudge the dollar, the dime, the cent, Igive to such men as do not belong to me and to whom I donot belong. There is a class of persons to whom by all spiritualaffinity I am bought and sold; for them I will go to prison, ifneed be; but your miscellaneous popular charities; theeducation at college of fools; the building of meeting- housesto the vain end to which many now stand; alms to sots; andthe thousand-fold Relief Societies; -though I confess withshame I sometimes succumb and give the dollar, it is a22ESSAYII.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 dowhat is called a good action, as some piece of courage orcharity, much as they would pay a fine in expiation of daily non- appearance on parade. Their works are done as an apology or extenuation of their living in the world, -as invalidsand 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 lowerstrain, so it be genuine and equal, than that it should beglittering and unsteady. I wish it to be sound and sweet, andnot to need diet and bleeding. I ask primary evidence thatyou 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. Icannot consent to pay for a privilege where I have intrinsicright. Few and mean as my gifts may be, I actually am, and do not need for my own assurance or the assurance of myfellows any secondary testimony.What I must do is all that concerns me, not what the peoplethink. This rule, equally arduous in actual and in intellectuallife, may serve for the whole distinction between greatness and meanness. It is the harder, because you will always findthose who think they know what is your duty better than youknow it. It is easy in the world to live after the world'sopinion; it is easy in solitude to live after our own; but thegreat man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps withperfect sweetness the independence of solitude.The objection to conforming to usages that have becomedead to you is, that it scatters your force. It loses your timeand blurs the impression of your character. If you maintaina dead church, contribute to a dead Bible- society, vote with agreat party either for the government or against it, spreadyour table like base housekeepers, -under all these screens Ihave difficulty to detect the precise man you are. And, ofcourse, so much force is withdrawn from your proper life.But do your work, and I shall knowyou. Do your work, and youshall reinforce yourself. A man must consider what a blindman's-buff is this game of conformity. If I know your sect, Ianticipate your argument. I hear a preacher announce for his text and topic the expediency of one of the institutions of hischurch. Do I not knowbeforehand that not possibly can he sayanew and spontaneous word? Do I not knowthat, with all thisostentation of examiningthe grounds of the institution, he willdo no such thing? Do I not know that he is pledged to himselfSELF-RELIANCE. 23not 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 ofopinion. This conformity makes them not false in a few particulars, authors of a few lies, but false in all particulars.Their every truth is not quite true. Their two is not the real two, their four not the real four; so that every word they saychagrins us, and we know not where to begin to set them right. Meantime nature is not slow to equip us in the prison- uniform of the party to which we adhere. We come to wear one cut of face and figure, and acquire by degrees the gentlestasinine expression. There is a mortifying experience in parti- cular, which does not fail to wreak itself also in the general history; I mean "the foolish face of praise," the forced smilewhich we put on in company where we do not feel at ease in answer to conversation which does not interest us. Themuscles, not spontaneously moved, but moved by a low usurp- ing wilfulness, grow tight about the outline of the face with the most disagreeable sensation.For nonconformity the world whips you with its dis- pleasure. And therefore a man must know how to estimate asour face. The bystanders look askance on him in the publicstreet or in the friend's parlour. If this aversation had itsorigin in contempt and resistance like his own, he might wellgo home with a sad countenance; but the sour faces of themultitude, like their sweet faces, have no deep cause, but are put on and off as the wind blows, and a newspaper directs.Yet is the discontent of the multitude more formidable thanthat of the senate and the college. It is easy enough for afirm man who knows the world to brook the rage of thecultivated classes. Their rage is decorous and prudent, forthey are timid as being very vulnerable themselves. But whento their feminine rage the indignation of the people is added,when the ignorant and the poor are aroused, when the unintelligent brute force that lies at the bottom of society is madeto growl and mow, it needs the habit of magnanimity andreligion to treat it godlike as a trifle of no concernment.The other terror that scares us from self-trust is our consistency; a reverence for our past act or word, because theeyes of others have no other data for computing our orbit than our past acts, and we are loath to disappoint them.But why should you keep your head over your shoulder?Whydragabout this corpse of your memory, lest you contradictsomewhat you have stated in this or that public place? Suppose you should contradict yourself; what then? It seems to24 ESSAY II.be a rule of wisdom never to rely on your memory alone,scarcely even in acts of pure memory, but to bring the past for judgment into the thousand- eyed present, and live ever in a new day. In your metaphysics you have denied personality to the Deity: yet when the devout motions of the soul come,yield to them heart and life, though they should clothe God with shape and colour. Leave your theory, as Joseph his coat in the hand of the harlot, and flee.Afoolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adoredby little statesmen and philosophers and divines . With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do. He may as well concern himself with his shadow on the wall. Speak whatyou think now in hard words, and to-morrow speak what to- morrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said to- day.-' Ah, so you shall be sure to bemisunderstood.'-Is it so bad, then, to be misunderstood?Pythagoras was misunderstood, and Socrates, and Jesus, andLuther, and Copernicus, and Galileo, and Newton, and everypure and wise spirit that ever took flesh. To be great is to be misunderstood.I suppose no man can violate his nature. All the sallies ofhis will are rounded in by the law of his being, as the inequalities of Andes and Himmaleh are insignificant in thecurve of the sphere. Nor does it matter how you gauge and try him. A character is like an acrostic or Alexandrianstanza; —read it forward, backward, or across, it still spells thesame thing. In this pleasing, contrite wood-life which Godallows me, let me record day by day my honest thought with- out prospect or retrospect, and, I cannot doubt, it will befound symmetrical, though I mean it not, and see it not. My book should smell of pines and resound with the hum ofinsects. The swallow over my window should interweave thatthread or straw he carries in his bill into my web also. We pass for what we are. Character teaches above our wills.Men imagine that they communicate their virtue or vice only by overt actions, and do not see that virtue or vice emit abreath every moment.There will be an agreement in whatever variety of actions,so they be each honest and natural in their hour. For of onewill, the actions will be harmonious, however unlike they seem. These varieties are lost sight of at a little distance, ata little height of thought. One tendency unites them all.The voyage of the best ship is a zigzag line of a hundred tacks. See the line from a sufficient distance, and it straightensitself to the average tendency. Your genuine action willexplain itself, and will explain your other genuine actions.Your conformity explains nothing. Act singly, and what youSELF-RELIANCE. 25GreatnessThehave already done singly will justify you now.appeals to the future. If I can be firm enough to-day to do right, and scorn eyes, I must have done so much right before as to defend me now. Be it how it will, do right now. Alwaysscorn appearances, and you always may. The force of character is cumulative. All the foregone days of virtue work theirhealth into this. What makes the majesty of the heroes ofthe senate and the field, which so fills the imagination?consciousness of a train of great days and victories behind.They shed an united light on the advancing actor. He isattended as by a visible escort of angels. That is it whichthrows thunder into Chatham's voice, and dignity into Washington's port, and America into Adams's eye. Honour is venerable to us because it is no ephemeris. It is alwaysancient virtue. We worship it to- day because it is not ofto-day. We love it and pay it homage, because it is not atrap for our love and homage, but is self- dependent, selfderived, and therefore of an old immaculate pedigree, even if shown in a young person.I hope in these days we have heard the last of conformityand consistency. Let the words be gazetted and ridiculous henceforward. Instead of the_gong for dinner, let us hear awhistle from the Spartan fife. Let us never bow and apologize more. Agreat man is coming to eat at my house. I do notwish to please him; I wish that he should wish to please me.I will stand here for humanity, and though I would make it kind, I would make it true. Let us affront and reprimand the smooth mediocrity and squalid contentment of the times, and hurl in the face of custom, and trade, and office,the fact which is the upshot of all history, that there is agreat responsible Thinker and Actor working wherever a man works; that a true man belongs to no other time or place, butis the centre of things. Where he is, there is nature. Hemeasures 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; ittakes place of the whole creation. The man must be so much,that he must make all circ*mstances indifferent. Every trueman is a cause, a country, and an age; requires infinitespaces and numbers and time fully to accomplish his design;-and posterity seem to follow his steps as a train of clients.A man Cæsar is born, and for ages after we have a Romanempire. 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 shadowof one man; as, Monachism, of the Hermit Antony; theReformation, of Luther; Quakerism, of Fox; Methodism, of26 ESSAY II.Wesley; Abolition, of Clarkson. Scipio, Milton called " theheight of Rome; " and all history resolves itself very easily into the biography of a few stout and earnest persons.Let a man then know his worth, and keep things under hisfeet. Let him not peep or steal, or skulk up and down withthe air of a charity- boy, a bastard, or an interloper, in the world which exists for him. But the man in the street, findingno worth in himself which corresponds to the force whichbuilt a tower or sculptured a marble god, feels poor when helooks on these. To him a palace, a statue, or a costly book have an alien and forbidding air, much like a gay equipage,and seem to say like that, ' Who are you, sir?' Yet they allare his, suitors for his notice, petitioners to his faculties thatthey will come out and take possession. The picture waits formy verdict: it is not to command me, but I am to settle itsclaims to praise. That popular fable of the sot who was pickedup dead drunk in the street, carried to the duke's house, washed and dressed and laid in the duke's bed, and, on his waking,treated with all obsequious ceremony like the duke, andassured that he had been insane, owes its popularity to thefact that it symbolizes so well the state of man, who is in the world a sort of sot, but now and then wakes up, exercises hisreason, and finds himself a true prince.Our reading is mendicant and sycophantic. In history, ourimagination plays us false. Kingdom and lordship, powerand estate, are a gaudier vocabulary than private John andEdward in a small house and common day's work; but the things of life are the same to both; the sum total of both isthe same. Why all this deference to Alfred, and Scanderbeg,and Gustavus? Suppose they were virtuous; did they wear out virtue? As great a stake depends on your private act today, as followed their public and renowned steps. When private men shall act with original views, the lustre will be trans- ferred from the actions of kings to those of gentlemen.man.The world has been instructed by its kings, who have somagnetized the eyes of nations. It has been taught by this colossal symbol the mutual reverence that is due from man toThe joyful loyalty with which men have everywhere suffered the king, the noble, or the great proprietor to walkamong them by a law of his own, make his own scale of menand things, and reverse theirs, pay for benefits not with money but with honour, and represent the law in his person, was thehieroglyphic by which they obscurely signified their consciousness of their own right and comeliness, the right of every man.The magnetism which all original action exerts is explained when we inquire the reason of self- trust. Who is the Trustee?SELF-RELIANCE. 27What is the aboriginal Self, on which a universal reliance maybe grounded? What is the nature and power of that sciencebaffling star, without parallax, without calculable elements,which shoots a ray of beauty even into trivial and impure actions, if the least mark of independence appear? Theinquiry leads us to that source, at once the essence of genius,of virtue, and of life, which we call Spontaneity or Instinct.We denote this primary wisdom as Intuition, whilst all later teachings are tuitions. In that deep force, the last factbehind which analysis cannot go, all things find their commonorigin. For, the sense of being which in calm hours rises, weknow not how, in the soul, is not diverse from things, fromspace, from light, from time, from man, but one with them,and proceeds obviously from the same source whence theirlife and being also proceed. We first share the life by whichthings exist, and afterwards see them as appearances in nature,and forget that we have shared their cause. Here is thefountain of action and of thought. Here are the lungs ofthat inspiration which giveth man wisdom, and which cannotbe denied without impiety and atheism. We lie in the lap ofimmense intelligence, which makes us receivers of its truthand organs of its activity. When we discern justice, when we discern truth, we do nothing of ourselves, but allow a passageto its beams. If we ask whence this comes, if we seek to pryinto 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 hisinvoluntary perceptions, and knows that to his involuntaryperceptions a perfect faith is due. He may err in the expression of them, but he knows that these things are so, likeday and night, not to be disputed. My wilful actions and acquisitions are but roving; -the idlest reverie, the faintestnative emotion, command my curiosity and respect. Thoughtless people contradict as readily the statement of perceptions as of opinions, or rather much more readily; for, they do notdistinguish 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 itafter me, and in course of time, all mankind, —although itmay 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 thatwhen God speaketh he should communicate, not one thing,but all things; should fill the world with his voice; should scatter forth light, nature, time, souls, from the centre of the present thought; and new date and new create the whole.28 ESSAY II.Whenever a mind is simple, and receives a divine wisdom, old things pass away, -means, teachers, texts, temples fall; itlives now, and absorbs past and future into the present hour.All things are made sacred by relation to it, -one as much asanother. All things are dissolved to their centre by theircause, and, in the universal miracle, petty and particular miracles disappear. If, therefore, a man claims to know andspeak 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 whichis its fulness and completion? Is the parent better than thechild into whom he has cast his ripened being? Whence,then, this worship of the past? The centuries are conspiratorsagainst the sanity and authority of the soul. Time and space are but physiological colours which the eye makes, but the soulis light; where it is, is day; where it was, is night; andhistory is an impertinence and an injury, if it be anything more than a cheerful apologue or parable of my being andbecoming.Man is timid and apologetic; he is no longer upright; hedares 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 formerroses or to better ones; they are for what they are; they existwith God to-day. There is no time to them. There is simply the rose; it is perfect in every moment of its existence.Before a leaf-bud has burst, its whole life acts; in the full- blown flower there is no more; in the leafless root there is noless. Its nature is satisfied, and it satisfies nature, in allmoments alike. But man postpones or remembers; he doesnot live in the present, but with reverted eye laments the past,or, heedless of the riches that surround him, stands on tiptoeto foresee the future. He cannot be happy and strong untilhe too lives with nature in the present, above time.This should be plain enough. Yet see what strong intellectsdare not yet hear God himself, unless he speak the phraseology of I know not what David, or Jeremiah, or Paul. We shallnot always set so great a price on a few texts, on a few lives.We are like children who repeat by rote the sentences ofgrandames 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 thesesayings, they understand them, and are willing to let thewords go; for, at any time, they can use words as good when occasion comes. If we live truly, we shall see truly. It is aseasy for the strong man to be strong, as it is for theSELF-RELIANCE. 29weak 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 remainsunsaid; probably cannot be said; for all that we say is thefar-off remembering of the intuition. That thought, by whatI can now nearest approach to say it, is this. When good is near you, when you have life in yourself, it is not by anyknown or accustomed way; you shall not discern the footprints of any other; you shall not see the face of man; youshall not hear any name; -the way, the thought, the good,shall be wholly strange and new. It shall exclude exampleand experience. You take the way from man, not to man.All persons that ever existed are its forgotten ministers. Fearand hope are alike beneath it. There is somewhat low even inhope. In the hour of vision, there is nothing that can becalled gratitude, nor properly joy. The soul raised overpassion beholds identity and eternal causation, perceives theself-existence of Truth and Right, and calms itself withknowing that all things go well. Vast spaces of nature, the Atlantic Ocean, the South Sea, -long intervals of time, years,centuries, are of no account. This which I think and feelunderlay every former state of life and circ*mstances, as itdoes underlie my present, and what is called life, and what is called death.Life only avails, not the having lived. Power ceases in theinstant of repose; it resides in the moment of transition froma past to a new state, in the shooting of the gulf, in the darting to an aim. This one fact the world hates, that the soul becomes; for that for ever degrades the past, turns all riches to poverty, all reputation to a shame, confounds the saint withthe 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 thatwhich relies, because it works and is. Who has more obediencethan I masters me, though he should not raise his finger.Round him I must revolve by the gravitation of spirits . We fancy it rhetoric, when we speak of eminent virtue. We donot yet see that virtue is Height, and that a man or a company of men, plastic and permeable to principles, by the law ofnature must overpower and ride all cities, nations, kings, rich men, poets, who are not.This is the ultimate fact which we so quickly reach on this,as on every topic, the resolution of all into the ever-blessedONE. Self- existence is the attribute of the Supreme Cause,30 ESSAY II.and it constitutes the measure of good by the degree in whichit enters into all lower forms. All things real are so by somuch virtue as they contain. Commerce, husbandry, hunting,whaling, war, eloquence, personal weight, are somewhat, andengage my respect as examples of its presence and impureaction. I see the same law working in nature for conservationand growth. Power is in nature the essential measure ofright. Nature suffers nothing to remain in her kingdomswhich cannot help itself. The genesis and maturation of aplanet, its poise and orbit, the bended tree recovering itself from the strong wind, the vital resources of every animal andvegetable, are demonstrations of the self- sufficing, and therefore self-relying soul.Thus all concentrates: let us not rove; let us sit at homewith the cause. Let us stun and astonish the intruding rabbleof men and books and institutions, by a simple declaration of the divine fact. Bid the invaders take the shoes from off theirfeet, for God is here within. Let our simplicity judge them,and our docility to our own law demonstrate the poverty of nature and fortune beside our native riches.But now we are a mob. Man does not stand in awe of man,nor is his genius admonished to stay at home, to put itself incommunication with the internal ocean, but it goes abroad tobeg a cup of water of the urns of other men.We must goalone. Ilike the silent church before the service begins, betterthan any preaching. How far off, how cool, how chaste thepersons look, begirt each one with a precinct or sanctuary!So let us always sit. Why should we assume the faults of ourfriend, or wife, or father, or child, because they sit around ourhearth, 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 theirpetulance 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 seems to bein conspiracy to importune you with emphatic trifles. Friend,client, child, sickness, fear, want, charity, all knock at once at thy closet door, and say,- Come out unto us.' But keep thy state; come not into their confusion. The power men possessto annoy me, I give them by a weak curiosity. No man can come near me but through my act. "What we love that wehave, but by desire we bereave ourselves of the love. "If we cannot at once rise to the sanctities of obedience andfaith, let us at least resist our temptations; let us enter into the state of war, and wake Thor and Woden, courage andconstancy, in our Saxon breasts . This is to be done in oursmooth times by speaking the truth. Check this lying hospitality and lying affection. Live no longer to the expectationSELF-RELIANCE. 31of these deceived and deceiving people with whom we converseSay to them, O father, O mother, O wife, O brother, O friend,I have lived with you after appearances hitherto. Henceforward I am the truth's. Be it known unto you that hence- forward 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 un- precedented way. I appeal from your customs. I must be myself. I cannot break myself any longer for you, or you.If you can love me for what I am, we shall be the happier. If you cannot, I will still seek to deserve that you should. I will not hide my tastes or aversions. I will so trust that what is deep is holy, that I will do strongly before the sun and moon whatever inly rejoices me, and the heart appoints. If you are noble, I will love you; if you are not, I will not hurt you and myself by hypocritical attentions. If you are true, but not in the same truth with me, cleave to your companions; I will seek my own. I do this not selfishly, but humbly and truly.It is alike your interest, and mine, and all men's, however long we have dwelt in lies, to live in truth. Does this soundharsh 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 standardsis 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 twoconfessionals, in one or the other of which we must be shriven.You mayfulfil your round of duties by clearing yourself in thedirect, or in the reflex way. Consider whether you have satisfied your relations to father, mother, cousin, neighbour, town,cat, and dog; whether any of these can upbraid you. But Imayalso 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 Ican discharge its debts, it enables me to dispense with thepopular code, If any one imagines that this law is lax, lethim keep its commandment one day.And truly it demands something godlike in him who hascast off the common motives of humanity, and has ventured totrust himself for a taskmaster. High be his heart, faithfulhis will, clear his sight, that he may in good earnest be doc-32 ESSAY II.trine, society, law, to himself, that a simple purpose may be tohim 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. Thesinew and heart of man seem to be drawn out, and we arebecome timorous, desponding whimperers. We are afraid of truth, afraid of fortune, afraid of death, and afraid of eachother. Our age yields no great and perfect persons. We want men and women who shall renovate life and our social state,but we see that most natures are insolvent, cannot satisfy theirown wants, have an ambition out of all proportion to theirpractical force, and do lean and beg day and night continually. Our housekeeping is mendicant, our arts, our occupations, our marriages, our religion, we have not chosen,but society has chosen for us. We are parlour soldiers. Weshun 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 isruined. If the finest genius studies at one of our colleges, andis not installed in an office within one year afterwards in the cities or suburbs of Boston or New York, it seems to hisfriends and to himself that he is right in being disheartened,and in complaining the rest of his life. A sturdy lad from New Hampshire or Vermont, who in turn tries all the professions, who teams it, farms it, peddles, keeps a school,preaches, edits a newspaper, goes to Congress, buys a township, and so forth, in successive years, and always, like a cat,falls on his feet, is worth a hundred of these city dolls . Hewalks 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. Leta Stoic open the resources of man, and tell men they are notleaning willows, but can and must detach themselves; that with the exercise of self-trust, new powers shall appear; thata man is the word made flesh, born to shed healing to the nations, that he should be ashamed of our compassion, andthat the moment he acts from himself, tossing the laws, thebooks, idolatries, and customs out of the window, we pity him no more, but thank and revere him, -and that teacher shallrestore 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 arevolution in all the offices and relations of men; in theirreligion; in their education; in their pursuits; their modes of living; their association; in their property; in their spec- ulative views. 11. In what prayers do men allow themselves! That whichSELF-RELIANCE.33333they call a holy office is not so much as brave and manly.Prayer looks abroad and asks for some foreign addition to come through some foreign virtue, and loses itself in endlessmazes of natural and supernatural, and mediatorial and mira- culous. 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 the soliloquy of a beholding and jubilant soul . It is thespirit of God pronouncing his works good. But prayer as ameans to effect a private end is meanness and theft. It sup- poses dualism and not unity in nature and consciousness. Assoon as the man is at one with God, he will not beg. He willthen see prayer in all action. The prayer of the farmerkneeling in his field to weed it, the prayer of the rower kneeling with the stroke of his oar, are true prayers heard through- out nature, though for cheap ends. Caratach, in Fletcher'sBonduca, when admonished to inquire the mind of the god Audate, replies, -"His hidden meaning lies in our endeavours;Our valours are our best gods.'"Another sort of false prayers are our regrets. Discontentis the want of self-reliance: it is infirmity of will. Regretcalamities, if you can thereby help the sufferer; if not, attendyour own work, and already the evil begins to be repaired.Our sympathy is just as base. We come to them who weepfoolishly, and sit down and cry for company, instead of imparting to them truth and health in rough electric shocks,putting them once more in communication with their own reason. The secret of fortune is joy in our hands. Welcomeevermore to gods and men is the self-helping man. For himall doors are flung wide: him all tongues greet, all honours crown, all eyes follow with desire. Our love goes out to him and embraces him, because he did not need it. We solicitouslyand apologetically caress and celebrate him, because he heldon his way and scorned our disapprobation. The gods love him because men hated him. "To the persevering mortal, "said Zoroaster, the blessed Immortals are swift."66As men's prayers are a disease of the will, so are theircreeds a disease of the intellect. They say with those foolishIsraelites, ‘ Let not God speak to us, lest we die. Speak thou,speak any man with us, and we will obey.' Everywhere I amhindered of meeting God in my brother, because he has shuthis own temple doors, and recites fables merely of his brother's,or his brother's brother's God. Every new mind is a newclassification. If it prove a mind of uncommon activity and power, a Locke, a Lavoisier, a Hutton, a Bentham, a Fourier,VOL. I. D34 ESSAY II.it imposes its classification on other men, and lo! a new system. In proportion to the depth of the thought, and so tothe number of the objects it touches and brings within reachof the pupil, is his complacency. But chiefly is this apparent in creeds and churches, which are also classifications of somepowerful mind acting on the elemental thought of duty, and man's relation to the Highest. Such is Calvinism, Quakerism,Swedenborgism. The pupil takes the same delight in subordinating every thing to the new terminology, as a girl who hasjust learned botany, in seeing a new earth and new seasons thereby. It will happen for a time, that the pupil will findhis intellectual power has grown by the study of his master's mind. But in all unbalanced minds, the classification isidolized, passes for the end, and not for a speedily exhaustiblemeans, 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 masterbuilt . They cannot imagine how you aliens have any right to see, how you can see; ' It must be somehow that you stolethe light from us.' They do not yet perceive, that light,unsystematic, indomitable, will break into any cabin, even into theirs. Let them chirp awhile and call it their own.they are honest and do well, presently their neat new pinfold will be too strait and low, will crack, will lean, will rot andvanish, and the immortal light, all young and joyful, million- orbed, million- coloured, will beam over the universe as on the first morning.If2. It is for want of self-culture that the superstition ofTravelling, whose idols are Italy, England, Egypt, retains its fascination for all educated Americans. They who madeEngland, Italy, or Greece venerable in the imagination, did so by sticking fast where they were, like an axis of the earth.In manly hours, we feel that duty is our place. The soul is no traveller; the wise man stays at home, and when his neces- sities, his duties, on any occasion call him from his house, or into foreign lands, he is at home still, and shall make mensensible by the expression of his countenance, that he goes the missionary of wisdom and virtue, and visits cities and menlike a sovereign, and not like an interloper or a valet.I have no churlish objection to the circumnavigation of theglobe, for the purposes of art, of study, and benevolence, so thatthe man is first domesticated, or does not go abroad with thehope of finding somewhat greater than he knows. He who travels to beamused, or to get somewhat which he does not carry,travels away from himself, and grows old even in youth amongold things. In Thebes, in Palmyra, his will and mind have become old and dilapidated as they. He carries ruins to ruins.SELF-RELIANCE.335Travelling is a fool's paradise. Our first journeys discoverto us the indifference ofplaces. At home I dream that at Naples,at Rome, I can be intoxicated with beauty, and lose mysadness. I pack my trunk, embrace my friends, embark onthe sea, and at last wake up in Naples, and there beside me isthe stern fact, the sad self, unrelenting, identical, that I fledfrom. I seek the Vatican, and the palaces. I affect to beintoxicated with sights and suggestions, but I am not intoxi- cated. My giant goes with me wherever I go.3. But the rage of travelling is a symptom of a deeper unsoundness affecting the whole intellectual action. Theintellect is vagabond, and our system of education fosters restlessness. Our minds travel when our bodies are forced tostay at home. We imitate; and what is imitation but the travelling of the mind? Our houses are built with foreigntaste; our shelves are garnished with foreign ornaments; ouropinions, our tastes, our faculties, lean, and follow the Pastand the Distant. The soul created the arts wherever they have flourished. It was in his own mind that the artistsought his model. It was an application of his own thoughtto the thing to be done and the conditions to be observed.And why need we copy the Doric or the Gothic model?Beauty, convenience, grandeur of thought, and quaint expres- sion are as near to us as to any, and if the American artistwill study with hope and love the precise thing to be done byhim, 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 themselvesfitted, and taste and sentiment will be satisfied also.NoInsist on yourself; never imitate. Your own gift you can present every moment with the cumulative force of a wholelife's cultivation; but of the adopted talent of another, youhave only an extemporaneous, half possession. That which each can do best, none but his Maker can teach him.man yet knows what it is, nor can, till that person has ex- hibited it. Where is the master who could have taughtShakespeare? Where is the master who could have instructed Franklin, or Washington, or Bacon, or Newton? Everygreat man is a unique. The Scipionism of Scipio is precisely that part he could not borrow. Shakespeare will never bemade by the study of Shakespeare. Do that which is assigned you, and you cannot hope too much or dare too much. Thereis at this moment for you an utterance brave and grand as that of the colossal chisel of Phidias, or trowel of the Egyptians, or the pen of Moses, or Dante, but different from allthese. Not possibly will the soul all rich, all eloquent, withthe usand- cloven tongue, deign to repeat itself; but if you can36 ་ ESSAY II.hear what these patriarchs say, surely you can reply to themin the same pitch of voice; for the ear and the tongue are twoorgans of one nature. Abide in the simple and noble regions of thy life, obey thy heart, and thou shalt reproduce the Fore- world again.4. As our Religion, our Education, our Art look abroad, sodoes 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 itgains on the other. It undergoes continual changes; it is barbarous, it is civilized, it is Christianized, it is rich, it isscientific; but this change is not amelioration. For everything that is given, something is taken. Society acquires new arts, and loses old instincts. What a contrast between thewell-clad, reading, writing, thinking American, with a watch, apencil, and a bill of exchange in his pocket, and the nakedNew Zealander, whose property is a club, a spear, a mat, and an undivided twentieth of a shed to sleep under! But compare the health of the two men, and you shall see that thewhite man has lost his aboriginal strength. If the travellertell us truly, strike the savage with a broad axe, and in aday or two the flesh shall unite and heal as if you struck the blow into soft pitch, and the same blow shall send the white to his grave.The civilized man has built a coach, but has lost the use ofhis feet. He is supported on crutches, but lacks so muchsupport of muscle. He has a fine Geneva watch, but he fails of the skill to tell the hour by the sun. A Greenwichnautical almanac he has, and so being sure of the information when he wants it, the man in the street does not know a starin the sky. The solstice he does not observe; the equinox heknows as little; and the whole bright calendar of the year is without a dial in his mind. His notebooks impair hismemory; his libraries overload his wit; the insurance-officeincreases the number of accidents; and it may be a questionwhether machinery does not encumber; whether we have notlost by refinement some energy, by a Christianity entrenchedin 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 inthe standard of height or bulk. No greater men are now than ever were. A singular equality may be observed between thegreat men of the first and of the last ages; nor can all thescience, art, religion, and philosophy of the nineteenth century avail to educate greater men than Plutarch's heroes, three orfour and twenty centuries ago. Not in time is the race pro-SELF-RELIANCE. 37gressive. Phocion, Socrates, Anaxagoras, Diogenes, are greatmen, but they leave no class . He who is really of their classwill 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 ofeach period are only its costume, and do not invigorate men.The harm of the improved machinery may compensate itsgood. Hudson and Behring accomplished so much in theirfishing- boats as to astonish Parry and Franklin, whose equipment exhausted the resources of science and art. Galileo, withan opera- glass, discovered a more splendid series of celestialphenomena than any one since. Columbus found the NewWorld in an undecked boat. It is curious to see the periodicaldisuse and perishing of means and machinery, which wereintroduced with loud laudation a few years or centuries before.The great genius returns to essential man. We reckoned theimprovements of the art of war among the triumphs of science,and yet Napoleon conquered Europe by the bivouac, whichconsisted of falling back on naked valour, and disencumbering it of all aids. The Emperor held it impossible to make aperfect army, says Las Casas, without abolishing our arms,magazines, commissaries, and carriages, until, in imitation ofthe Roman custom, the soldier should receive his supply of corn, grind it in his hand-mill, and bake his bread himself."Society is a wave.66The wave moves onward, but the waterof which it is composed does not. The same particle does notrise from the valley tothe ridge. Its unity is only phenomenal.The persons who make up a nation to-day, next year die, and their experience with them.And so the reliance on Property, including the reliance on governments which protect it, is the want of self- reliance.Men have looked away from themselves and at things so long,that they have come to esteem the religious, learned, and civilinstitutions as guards of property, and they deprecate assaultson 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 becomesashamed of his property, out of new respect for his nature.Especially he hates what he has, if he see that it is accidental,-came to him by inheritance, or gift, or crime; then he feelsthat it is not having; it does not belong to him, has no root in him, and merely lies there, because no revolution or no robbertakes it away. But that which a man is, does always bynecessity acquire, and what the man acquires is living pro- perty, which does not wait the beck of rulers, or mobs, orrevolutions, 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; therefore38 ESSAY II.be at rest from seeking after it." Our dependence on theseforeign goods leads us to our slavish respect for numbers.The political parties meet in numerous conventions; thegreater the concourse, and with each new uproar of announcement, The delegation from Essex! The Democrats from NewHampshire! The Whigs of Maine! the young patriot feelshimself 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! willthe God deign to enter and inhabit you, but by a methodprecisely the reverse. It is only as a man puts off all foreignsupport, and stands alone, that I see him to be strong and toprevail. He is weaker by every recruit to his banner. Is nota man better than a town? Ask nothing of men, and in theendless mutation, thou only firm column must presently appearthe upholder of all that surrounds thee. He who knows thatpower is inborn, that he is weak because he has looked forgood out of him and elsewhere, and so perceiving, throws himself unhesitatingly on his thought, instantly rights himself,stands in the erect position, commands his limbs, worksmiracles; just as a man who stands on his feet is stronger than a man who stands on his head.So use all that is called Fortune. Most men gamble withher, and gain all, and lose all, as her wheel rolls . But do thouleave as unlawful these winnings, and deal with Cause andEffect, the chancellors of God. In the Will work and acquire,and thou hast chained the wheel of Chance, and shalt sit hereafter out of fear from her rotations. A political victory, a rise of rents, the recovery of your sick, or the return of your absentfriend, or some other favourable event, raises your spirits, andyou think good days are preparing for you. Do not believe it.Nothing can bring you peace but yourself. Nothing can bring you peace but the triumph of principles.39EVERIII.-COMPENSATION.The wings of Time are black and white,Pied with morning and with night.Mountain tall and ocean deepTrembling balance duly keep.In changing moon, in tidal wave,Glows the feud of Want and Have.Gauge of more and less through space Electric star and pencil plays.The lonely Earth amid the balls That hurry through the eternal halls ,A makeweight flying to the void,Supplemental asteroid,Or compensatory spark,Shoots across the neutral Dark.Man's the elm, and Wealth the vine,Stanch and strong the tendrils twine:Though the frail ringlets thee deceive,None from its stock that vine can reave.Fear not, then, thou child infirm ,There's no god dare wrong a worm.Laurel crowns cleave to deserts,And power to him who power exertsHast not thy share? On winged feet,Lo! it rushes thee to meet;And all that Nature made thy own,Floating in air or pent in stone,Will rive the hills and swim the sea,And, like thy shadow, follow thee.VER 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 peopleknew more than the preachers taught. The documents, too,from which the doctrine is to be drawn, charmed my fancy bytheir endless variety, and lay always before me, even in sleep;for they are the tools in our hands, the bread in our basket, thetransactions of the street, the farm, and the dwelling-house,greetings, relations, debts and credits, the influence of charac- ter, the nature and endowment of all men. It seemed to me,also, that in it might be shown men a ray of divinity, thepresent action of the soul of this world, clean from all vestige of tradition, and so the heart of man might be bathed by aninundation of eternal love, conversing with that which heknows was always, and always must be, because it really is now. It appeared, moreover, that if this doctrine could be40 ESSAY III.stated in terms with any resemblance to those bright intuitions in which this truth is sometimes revealed to us, it would be astar 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 sermonat church. The preacher, a man esteemed for his orthodoxy,unfolded in the ordinary manner the doctrine of the LastJudgment. He assumed, that judgment is not executed inthis world; that the wicked are successful; that the good are miserable; and then urged from reason and from Scripture acompensation to be made to both parties in the next life. Nooffence appeared to be taken by the congregation at this doctrine. As far as I could observe, when the meeting brokeup, they separated without remark on the sermon.Yet what was the import of this teaching? What did the preacher mean by saying that the good are miserable in the present life? Was it that houses and lands, offices, wine,horses, dress, luxury, are had by unprincipled men, whilst thesaints are poor and despised; and that a compensation is to be made to these last hereafter, by giving them the like gratifications another day,-bank-stock and doubloons, venison andchampagne? This must be the compensation intended; for what else? Is it that they are to have leave to pray andpraise? to love and serve men? Why, that they can do now.The legitimate inference the disciple would draw was,"Weare to have such a good time as the sinners have now; "-or topush it to its extreme import, -" You sin now; we shall sin byand by; we would sin now, if we could; not being successful,we expect our revenge to- morrow. "The fallacy lay in the immense concession, that the bad are successful; that justice is not done now. The blindness ofthe preacher consisted in deferring to the base estimate of the market of what constitutes a manly success, instead of confronting and convicting the world fromthe truth; announcing the presence of the soul; the omnipotence of the will: and soestablishing the standard of good and ill, of success and falsehood.I find a similar base tone inthe popular religious works oftheday, and the same doctrines assumed by the literary men whenoccasionally they treat the related topics. I think that ourpopular theology has gained in decorum, and not in principle,over the superstitions it has displaced. But men are betterthan this theology. Their daily life gives it the lie. Every ingenuous and aspiring soul leaves the doctrine behind him inhis own experience; and all men feel sometimes the falsehoodwhich they cannot demonstrate. For men are wiser than theyknow. That which they hear in schools and pulpits withoutCOMPENSATION. 41afterthought, if said in conversation, would probably be ques- tioned in silence. If a man dogmatize in a mixed company onProvidence and the divine laws, he is answered by a silence which conveys well enough to an observer the dissatisfactionof the hearer, but his incapacity to make his own statement.I shall attempt in this and the following chapter to recordsome 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 centripetal gravity; in electricity, galvanism, and chemical affinity. Superinduce magnetism at one end of a needle; the opposite magnetism takes place at the other end. If the south attracts, the north repels. To empty here, you must condense there. An inevitable dualism bisects nature, so that each thing is a half,and suggests another thing to make it whole; as, spirit,matter; man, woman; odd, even; subjective, objective; in,out; upper, under; motion, rest; yea, nay.Whilst the world is thus dual, so is every one of its parts.The entire system of things gets represented in every particle.There is somewhat that resembles the ebb and flow of the sea,day and night, man and woman, in a single needle of the pine,in a kernel of corn, in each individual of every animal tribe.The reaction, so grand in the elements, is repeated withinthese small boundaries. For example, in the animal kingdomthe physiologist has observed that no creatures are favourites,but a certain compensation balances every gift and everydefect. A surplusage given to one part is paid out of areduction from another part of the same creature. If thehead and neck are enlarged, the trunk and extremities are cut short.The theory of the mechanic forces is another example.What we gain in power is lost in time; and the converse.The periodic or compensating errors of the planets is another instance. The influences of climate and soil in political historyare another. The cold climate invigorates. The barren soildoes 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 faculty42 ESSAY III.which is a receiver of pleasure has an equal penalty put on itsabuse. It is to answer for its moderation with its life. Forevery grain of wit there is a grain of folly. For everythingyou have missed, you have gained something else; and for everything you gain, you lose something. If riches increase,they are increased that use them. If the gatherer gathers toomuch, nature takes out of the man what she puts into his chest; swells the estate, but kills the owner. Nature hatesmonopolies and exceptions. Thewaves of the sea do not morespeedily seek a level from their loftiest tossing, than thevarieties of condition tend to equalize themselves. There isalways some levelling circ*mstance that puts down the overbearing, the strong, the rich, the fortunate, substantially onthe same ground with all others. Is a man too strong andfierce for society, and by temper and position a bad citizen,—a morose ruffian, with a dash of the pirate in him; -naturesends him a troop of pretty sons and daughters, who aregetting along in the dame's classes at the village school, andlove and fear for them smooths his grim scowl to courtesy.Thus she contrives to intenerate the granite and felspar, takesthe 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 hascommonly cost him all his peace, and the best of his manly attributes. To preserve for a short time so conspicuous an appearance before the world, he is content to eat dust beforethe real masters who stand erect behind the throne. Or, domen desire the more substantial and permanent grandeur ofgenius? Neither has this an immunity. He who by force of will or of thought is great, and overlooks thousands, has thecharges of that eminence. With every influx of light comesnew danger. Has he light?-he must bear witness to the light,and always outrun that sympathy which gives him such keen satisfaction, by his fidelity to new revelations of the incessant soul. He must hate father and mother, wife and child. Has he all that the world loves and admires and covets?-he mustcast behind him their admiration, and afflict them by faith- fulness to his truth, and become a byword and a hissing.This law writes the laws of cities and nations. It is in vainto build or plot or combine against it. Things refuse to bemismanaged long. Res nolunt diu male administrari. Though no checks to a new evil appear, the checks exist, and willappear. If the government is cruel, the governor's life is not safe. If you tax too high, the revenue will yield nothing. Ifyou make the criminal code sanguinary, juries will not convict.If the law is too mild, private vengeance comes in. Ifthegovernment is a terrific democracy, the pressure is resisted byCOMPENSATION. 43an overcharge of energy inthe citizen, and life glows with afiercer flame. The true life and satisfactions of man seem toelude the utmost rigours or felicities of condition, and to establish themselves with great indifferency under all varieties of circ*mstances. Under all governments the influence of character remains the same, -in Turkey and in New England about alike. Under the primeval despots of Egypt, historyhonestly confesses that man must have been as free as culture could make him.These appearances indicate the fact that the universe isrepresented in every one of its particles. Everything innature contains all the powers of nature. Everything ismade of one hidden stuff; as the naturalist sees one type underevery metamorphosis, and regards a horse as a running man,a fish as a swimming man, a bird as a flying man, a tree as arooted man. Each new form repeats not only the maincharacter of the type, but part for part all the details, all theaims, furtherances, hindrances, energies, and whole system ofevery other. Every occupation, trade, art, transaction, is acompend of the world, and a correlative of every other. Eachone is an entire emblem of human life; of its good and ill, itstrials, its enemies, its course and its end. And each one mustsomehow accommodate the whole man, and recite all hisdestiny.The world globes itself in a drop of dew. The microscopecannot find the animalcule which is less perfect for beinglittle. Eyes, ears, taste, smell, motion, resistance, appetite,and organs of reproduction that take hold on eternity, -all find room to consist in the small creature. So do we put ourlife into every act. The true doctrine of omnipresence is, thatGod reappears with all his parts in every moss and cobweb.The value of the universe contrives to throw itself into everypoint. 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 itsfatal strength. "It is in the world, and the world was madeby it." Justice is not postponed. Aperfect equity adjusts its balance in all parts of life. Οἱ κύβοι Διὸς ἀεὶ εὐπίπτουσι,—The dice of God are always loaded. The world looks like amultiplication-table, or a mathematical equation, which, turnit how you will, balances itself. Take what figure you will, itsexact value, nor more nor less, still returns to you. Everysecret is told, every crime is punished, every virtue rewarded,every wrong redressed, in silence and certainty. What wocall retribution is the universal necessity by which the whole44 ESSAY III.appears wherever a part appears. If you see smoke, theremust be fire. If you see a hand or a limb, you know that the trunk to which it belongs is there behind.Every act rewards itself, or, in other words, integrates itself, in a twofold manner: first, in the thing, or in realnature; and secondly, in the circ*mstance, or in apparent nature. Men call the circ*mstance the retribution. Thecasual retribution is in the thing, and is seen by the soul.The retribution in the circ*mstance is seen by the understanding; it is inseparable from the thing, but is often spread over a long time, and so does not become distinct until aftermany years. The specific stripes may follow late after theoffence, but they follow because they accompany it. Crime and punishment grow out of one stem. Punishment is a fruitthat unsuspected ripens within the flower of the pleasure which concealed it. Cause and effect, means and ends, seedand fruit, cannot be severed; for the effect already 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 bedisparted, we seek to act partially, to sunder, to appropriate;for example, to gratify the senses, we sever the pleasure ofthe senses from the needs of the character. The ingenuity ofman has always been dedicated to the solution of one problem,-how to detach the sensual sweet, the sensual strong, thesensual bright, &c. , from the moral sweet, the moral deep, the moral fair; that is, again, to contrive to cut clean off thisupper surface so thin as to leave it bottomless; to get a one end, without an other end. The soul says, Eat; the bodywould feast. The soul says, The man and woman should beone flesh and one soul; the body would join the flesh only.The soul says, Have dominion over all things to the ends ofvirtue; 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 manaims to be somebody; to set up for himself; to truck andhiggle for a private good; and, in particulars, to ride, that hemay ride; to dress, that he may be dressed; to eat, that he may eat; and to govern, that he may be seen. Men seek tobe great; they would have offices, wealth, power, and fame.They think that to be great is to possess one side of nature, —the sweet, without the other side, -the bitter.This dividing and detaching is steadily counteracted. Upto this day, it must be owned, no projector has had the smallest success. The parted water reunites behind our hand.COMPENSATION. 45Pleasure is taken out of pleasant things, profit out of profitable things, power out of strong things, as soon as we seek toseparate them from the whole. We can no more halve thingsand get the sensual good, by itself, than we can get an insidethat shall have no outside, or a light without a shadow.· Drive out nature with a fork, she comes running back. ”66Life invests itself with inevitable conditions, which theunwise seek to dodge, which one and another brags that hedoes not know; that they do not touch him;-but the brag ison his lips, the conditions are in his soul. If he escapes themin one part, they attack him in another more vital part. Ifhe has escaped them in form, and in the appearance, it is because he has resisted his life, and fled from himself, and theretribution is so much death. So signal is the failure of allattempts to make this separation of the good from the tax,that the experiment would not be tried, since to try it is to be mad, but for the circ*mstance, that when the diseasebegan in the will, of rebellion and separation, the intellect is at once infected, so that the man ceases to see God whole ineach object, but is able to see the sensual allurement of an object, and not see the sensual hurt; he sees the mermaid'shead, but not the dragon's tail; and thinks he can cut off that which he would have, from that which he would not have. "How secret art thou who dwellest in the highestheavens in silence, O thou only great God, sprinkling with anunwearied Providence certain penal blindnesses upon such as have unbridled desires!" *The human soul is true to these facts in the painting of fable, of history, of law, of proverbs, of conversation. It finds a tongue in literature unawares. Thus the Greeks calledJupiter, Supreme Mind; but having traditionally ascribed tohim many base actions, they involuntarily made amends toreason, by tying up the hands of so bad a god. He is made ashelpless as a king of England. Prometheus knows one secret which Jove must bargain for; Minerva, another. He cannotget his own thunders; Minerva keeps the key of them.Of all the gods, I only know the keys That ope the solid doors within whose vaults His thunders sleep. "A plain confession of the in-working of the All, and of itsmoral aim. The Indian mythology ends in the same ethics;and it would seem impossible for any fable to be invented and get any currency which was not moral. Aurora forgot to askyouth for her lover, and though Tithonus is immortal, he isold. Achilles is not quite invulnerable; the sacred waters did

• St. Augustine, Confessions, B. I.

46 ESSAY III.not wash the heel by which Thetis held him. Siegfried, inthe Nibelungen, is not quite immortal, for a leaf fell on hisback whilst he was bathing in the dragon's blood, and thatspot which it covered is mortal. And so it must be. There isa crack in everything God has made. It would seem, there isalways this vindictive circ*mstance stealing in at unawares,even into the wild poesy in which the human fancy attemptedto make bold holiday, and to shake itself free of the old laws-this back- stroke, this kick of the gun, certifying that thelaw is fatal; that in nature nothing can be given, all things are sold.This is that ancient doctrine of Nemesis, who keeps watch in the universe, and lets no offence go unchastised. The Furies,they said, are attendants on justice, and if the sun in heaven should transgress his path, they would punish him. Thepoets related that stone walls, and iron swords, and leathernthongs, had an occult sympathy with the wrongs of theirowners; that the belt which Ajax gave Hector dragged theTrojan hero over the field at the wheels of the car of Achilles,and the sword which Hector gave Ajax was that on whose point Ajax fell. They recorded, that when the Thasianserected a statue to Theagenes, a victor in the games, one ofhis rivals went to it by night, and endeavoured to throw it down by repeated blows, until at last he moved it from itspedestal, and was crushed to death beneath its fall.This voice of fable has in it somewhat divine. It came fromthought above the will of the writer. That is the best part ofeach writer, which has nothing private in it; that which he does not know; that which flowed out of his constitution, andnot from his too active invention; that which in the study ofa single artist you might not easily find, but in the study of many, you would abstract as the spirit of them all . Phidiasit is not, but the work of man in that early Hellenic world,that I would know. The name and circ*mstance of Phidias,however convenient for history, embarrass when we come tothe highest criticism. We are to see that which man was tending to do in a given period, and was hindered, or, if youwill, modified in doing, by the interfering volitions 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 quali- fication. Proverbs, like the sacred books of each nation, are the sanctuary of the intuitions. That which the droningworld, chained to appearances, will not allow the realist to say in his own words, it will suffer him to say in proverbs withoutCOMPENSATION. 47contradiction. And this law of laws which the pulpit, the senate,and the college deny, is hourly preached in all markets andworkshops by flights of proverbs, whose teaching is as true and as omnipresent as that of birds and flies.All things are double, one against another. -Tit for tat; aneye for an eye; a tooth for a tooth; blood for blood; measure for measure; love for love.-Give and it shall be given you.-He that watereth shall be watered himself. —What will youhave? 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 headof 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 isovermastered, and characterised above our will by the law ofnature. 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 himself. With his will,or against his will, he draws his portrait to the eye of his com- panions by every word. Every opinion reacts on him who utters it. It is a thread- ball thrown at a mark, but the otherend remains in the thrower's bag. Or, rather, it is a harpoonhurled at the whale, unwinding, as it flies, a coil of cord in theboat, and if the harpoon is not good, or not well thrown, itwill go nigh to cut the steersman in twain, or to sink the boat.66 You cannot do wrong without suffering wrong. No manhad ever a point of pride that was not injurious to him," said Burke. The exclusive in fashionable life does not see that heexcludes himself from enjoyment, in the attempt to appropriateit. The exclusionist in religion does not see that he shuts thedoor of heaven on himself, in striving to shut out others.Treat men as pawns and ninepins, and you shall suffer as wellas 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 fromhis purse or get it from his skin, " is sound philosophy.All infractions of love and equity in our social relations are speedily punished. They are punished by fear. Whilst Istand 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 not48 ESSAY III.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, allunjust accumulations of property and power, are avenged in the same manner. Fear is an instructor of great sagacity,and the herald of all revolutions. One thing he teaches, thatthere is rottenness where he appears. He is a carrion crow,and though you see not well what he hovers for, there is deathsomewhere. Our property is timid, our laws are timid, our cultivated classes are timid. Fear for ages has boded andmowed and gibbered over government and property. That obscene bird is not there for nothing. He indicates greatwrongs which must be revised.Of the like nature is that expectation of change whichinstantly follows the suspension of our voluntary activity.The terror of cloudless noon, the emerald of Polycrates, theawe of prosperity, the instinct which leads every generous soul to impose on itself tasks of a noble asceticism and vicarious virtue, are the tremblings of the balance of justice through the heart and mind of man.Experienced men of the world know very well that it is bestto pay scot and lot as they go along, and that a man often pays dear for a small frugality. The borrower runs in his own debt. Has a man gained any thing who has received ahundred favours and rendered none? Has he gained byborrowing, through indolence or cunning, his neighbour's wares, or horses, or money? There arises on the deed theinstant acknowledgment of benefit on the one part, and of debt on the other; that is, of superiority and inferiority.The transaction remains in the memory of himself and his neighbour; and every new transaction alters, according to its nature, their relation to each other. He may soon come to see that he had better have broken his own bones than to haveridden 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 youand justice, but it is only a postponement. You must pay atlast 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 islevied. He is great who confers the most benefits. He is baseCOMPENSATION. 49-and that is the one base thing in the universe-to receive favours and render none. In the order of nature we cannotrender benefits to those from whom we receive them, oronly seldom. But the benefit we receive must be renderedagain, line for line, deed for deed, cent for cent, to somebody. Beware of too much good staying in your hand. It will fast corrupt and worm worms. Pay it away quickly in some sort.Labour is watched over bythe same pitiless laws. Cheapest,say the prudent, is the dearest labour. What we buy in abroom, a mat, a waggon, a knife, is some application of good sense to a common want. It is best to pay in your land askilful gardener, or to buy good sense applied to gardening;in your sailor, good sense applied to navigation; in the house,good sense applied to cooking, sewing, serving; in your agent,good sense applied to accounts and affairs. So do you multiply your presence, or spread yourself throughout your estate.But because of the dual constitution of things, in labour as in life there can be no cheating. The thief steals from himself.The swindler swindles himself. For the real price of labour is knowledge and virtue, whereof wealth and credit are signs.These signs, like paper money, may be counterfeited or stolen,but that which they represent, namely, knowledge and virtue,cannot be counterfeited or stolen. These ends of labourcannot be answered but by real exertions of the mind, and in obedience to pure motives. The cheat, the defaulter, thegambler, cannot extort the knowledge of material and moral nature which his honest care and pains yield to the operative.The law of nature is, Do the thing, and you shall have the power: but they who do not the thing have not the power.Human labour, through all its forms, from the sharpening of a stake to the construction of a city or an epic, is oneimmense illustration of the perfect compensation of theuniverse. The absolute balance of Give and Take, the doctrinethat every thing has its price and if that price is not paid,not that thing but something else is obtained, and that it isimpossible to get anything without its price is not less sublime in the columns of a ledger than inthe budgets of states, in the laws of light and darkness, in all the action and reactionof nature. I cannot doubt that the high laws which each mansees implicated in those processes with which he is conversant,the stern ethics which sparkle on his chisel-edge, which aremeasured out by his plumb and foot- rule, which stand as manifest in the footing of the shop-bill as in the history of astate-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 VOL. I. E50ESSAYIII.assume a hostile front to vice. The beautiful laws and substances of the world persecute and whip the traitor. He finds that things are arranged for truth and benefit, but there is noden in the wide world to hide a rogue. Commit a crime, andthe earth is made of glass. Commit a crime, and it seems as if a coat of snow fell on the ground, such as reveals in thewoods the track of every partridge and fox and squirrel andmole. You cannot recall the spoken word, you cannot wipeout the foot-track, you cannot draw up the ladder, so as toleave no inlet or clew. Some damning circ*mstance alwaystranspires. The laws and substances of nature-water, snow,wind, gravitation become penalties to the thief.On the other hand, the law holds with equal sureness for all right action. Love, and you shall be loved. All love ismathematically just, as much as the two sides of an algebraic equation. The good man has absolute good, which like fireturns everything to its own nature, so that you cannot do himany harm; but as the royal armies sent against Napoleon,when he approached, cast down their colours and from enemiesbecame friends, so disasters of all kinds, as sickness, offence,poverty, prove benefactors:-"Winds blow and waters rollStrength to the brave, and power and deity,Yet in themselves are nothing."The good are befriended even by weakness and defect. As no man had ever a point of pride that was not injurious to him,so no man had ever a defect that was not somewhere made useful to him. The stag in the fable admired his horns and blamedhis feet, but when the hunter came, his feet saved him, andafterwards, caught in a 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 contendedagainst it, so no man has a thorough acquaintance with the hindrances or talents of men, until he has suffered from the one, and seen the triumph of the other over his own want of the same. Has he a defect of temper that unfits him to live in society? Thereby he is driven to entertain himself alone,and acquire habits of self-help; and thus, like the wounded oyster, he mends his shell with pearl.Our strength grows out of our weakness. The indignation which arms itself with secret forces does not awaken until weare pricked and stung and sorely assailed. A great man is always willing to be little. Whilst he sits on the cushion ofadvantages, he goes to sleep. When he is pushed, tormented,defeated, he has a chance to learn something; he has been put on his wits, on his manhood; he has gained facts; learns hisCOMPENSATION. 51.ignorance; is cured of the insanity of conceit; has got mode- ration and real skill. The wise man throws himself on theside of his assailants. It is more his interest than it is theirsto find his weak point. The wound cicatrizes and falls off from him like a dead skin, and whenthey would triumph, lo! hehas passed on invulnerable. Blame is safer than praise. I hateto be defended in a newspaper. As long as all that is said issaid against me, I feel a certain assurance of success.But assoon as honeyed words of praise are spoken for me, I feel as one that lies unprotected before his enemies. In general,every evil to which we do not succumb is a benefactor. Asthe Sandwich Islander believes that the strength and valour ofthe enemy he kills passes into himself, so we gain the strength of the temptation we resist.The same guards which protect us from disaster, defect, and enmity, defend us, if we will, from selfishness and fraud.Bolts and bars are not the best of our institutions, nor is shrewdness in trade a mark of wisdom. Men suffer all theirlife long, under the foolish superstition that they can be cheated. But it is as impossible for a man to be cheated by any one but himself, as for a thing to be and not to be at thesame time. There is a third silent party to all our bargains.The nature and soul of things takes on itself the guaranty of the fulfilment of every contract, so that honest service cannotcome to loss. If you serve an ungrateful master, serve himthe more. Put God in your debt. Every stroke shall be re- paid. The longer the payment is withholden, the better foryou; for compound interest on compound interest is the rateand 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 constitution. It persecutes a principle; it would whip a right; it would tar and feather justice, by inflicting fire and outrage upon the houses and persons of those who have these. It resembles the prank of boys, who run withfire- engines to put out the ruddy aurora streaming to the stars. The inviolate spirit turns their spite against the wrongdoers. The martyr cannot be dishonoured. Every lash in- flicted is a tongue of fame; every prison, a more illustrious abode; every burned book or house enlightens the world;every suppressed or expunged word reverberates through theearth from side to side. Hours of sanity and consideration52 ESSAY III.are always arriving to communities, as to individuals, when the truth is seen, and the martyrs are justified.Thus do all things preach the indifferency of circ*mstances.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 indifferency. The thoughtless say, on hearing these representations, -What boots it to do well? there is one event to good and evil; if I gain any good, I must pay for it; if I lose anygood, 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 alife. The soul is. Under all this running sea of circ*mstance,whose waters ebb and flow with perfect balance, lies the aboriginal abyss of real Being. Essence, or God, is not a relation,or a part, but the whole. Being is the vast affirmative, excluding negation, self-balanced, and swallowing up all relations,parts, and times within itself. Nature, truth, virtue, are the influx from thence. Vice is the absence or departure of thesame. Nothing, Falsehood, may indeed stand as the greatNight or shade, on which, as a background, the living universe paints itself forth; but no fact is begotten by it; it cannotwork; for it is not. It cannot work any good; it cannotwork any harm. It is harm inasmuch as it is worse not to be than to be.Wefeel defrauded of the retribution due to evil acts, becausethe criminal adheres to his vice and contumacy, and does notcome to a crisis or judgment anywhere in visible nature.There is no stunning confutation of his nonsense before menand angels. Has he therefore outwitted the law? Inasmuchas he carries the malignity and the lie with him, he so far deceases from nature. In some manner there will be a demonstration of the wrong to the understanding also; butshould 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 tovirtue; no penalty to wisdom; they are proper additions ofbeing. In a virtuous action, I properly am; in a virtuousact, I add to the world; I plant into deserts conquered fromChaos and Nothing, and see the darkness receding on the limits of the horizon. There can be no excess to love; noneto knowledge; none to beauty, when these attributes are con- sidered in the purest sense. The soul refuses limits, and always affirms an Optimism, never a Pessimism.His life is a progress, and not a station. His instinct isCOMPENSATION. 5329 trust. Our instinct uses " more and " less " in applicationto man, of the presence ofthe soul, and not of its absence; the brave man is greater than the coward; the true, the bene- volent, the wise, is more a man, and not less, than the fool andknave. There is no tax on the good of virtue; for that is the incoming of God himself, or absolute existence, without any comparative. Material good has its tax, and if it came with- out desert or sweat, has no root in me, and the next windwill 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 potof buried gold, knowing that it brings with it new burdens. Ido not wish more external goods, -neither possessions, nor honours, nor powers, nor persons. The gain is apparent; the tax is certain. But there is no tax on the knowledge that the compensation exists, and that it is not desirable to dig upup treasure. Herein I rejoice with a serene eternal peace.contract the boundaries of possible mischief. I learn the wisdom of St. Bernard,-" Nothing can work me damage except myself; the harm that I sustain I carry about with me,and never am a real sufferer but by my own fault."In the nature of the soul is the compensation for the inequalities of condition. The radical tragedy of nature seems to be the distinction of More and Less. How can Less notfeel the pain; how not feel indignation or malevolence towardsMore? Look at those who have less faculty, and one feels sad, and knows not well what to make of it. He almost shuns their eye; he fears they will upbraid God. What should theydo? 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 soulof all men being one, this bitterness of His and Mine ceases.His is mine. I am my brother, and my brother is me. If Ifeel overshadowed and outdone by great neighbours, I can yet love; I can still receive; and he that loveth maketh hisown 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 things.Jesus and Shakespeare are fragments of the soul, and by love I conquer and incorporate them in my own conscious domain.His virtue,-is not that mine? His wit,-if it cannot be mademine, it is not wit.Such, also, is the natural history of calamity. The changeswhich break up at short intervals the prosperity of men are advertisem*nts of a nature whose law is growth. Every soul54 ESSAY III.is by this intrinsic necessity quitting its whole system ofthings, its friends, and home, and laws, and faith, as the shell- fish crawls out of its beautiful but stony case, because it nolonger admits of its growth, and slowly forms a new house.In proportion to the vigour of the individual, these revolutionsare frequent, until in some happier mind they are incessant,and all worldly relations hang very loosely about him, be- coming, as it were, a transparent fluid membrane throughwhich the living form is seen, and not, as in most men, anindurated heterogeneous fabric of many dates, and of nosettled character, in which the man is imprisoned. Thenthere can be enlargement, and the man of to-day scarcely recognizes the man of yesterday. And such should be theoutward biography of man in time, a putting off of deadcirc*mstances day by day, as he renews his raiment day byday. But to us, in our lapsed estate, resting, not advancing,resisting, not co-operating with the divine expansion, thisgrowth comes by shocks.We cannot part with our friends. We cannot let our angelsgo. We do not see that they only go out, that archangels may come in. We are idolaters of the old. We do not believein the riches of the soul, in its proper eternity and omni- presence. We do not believe there is any force in to-day torival or recreate that beautiful yesterday. We linger in the ruins of the old tent, where once we had bread and shelter andorgans, nor believe that the spirit can feed, cover, and nerveus again. We cannot again find aught so dear, so sweet, so graceful. But we sit and weep in vain. The voice of theAlmighty saith, Up and onward for evermore!' We cannotstay amid the ruins. Neither will we rely on the new; and so we walk ever with reverted eyes, like those monsters who look backwards.And yet the compensations of calamity are made apparent to the understanding also, after long intervals of time. Afever, a mutilation, a cruel disappointment, a loss of wealth, aloss of friends, seems at the moment unpaid loss, and unpayable.But the sure years reveal the deep remedial force that underlies all facts. The death of a dear friend, wife, brother, lover,which seemed nothing but privation, somewhat later assumes the aspect of a guide or genius; for it commonly operatesrevolutions in our way of life, terminates an epoch of infancy or of youth which was waiting to be closed, breaks up awonted occupation, or a household, or style of living, and allows the formation of new ones more friendly to the growthof character. It permits or constrains the formation of new acquaintances, and the reception of new influences that proveof the first importance to the next years; and the man orSPIRITUAL LAWS. 55woman who would have remained a sunny garden- flower, withno room for its roots and too much sunshine for its head, by the falling of the walls and the neglect of the gardener, ismade the banian of the forest, yielding shade and fruit to wideneighbourhoods of men.IV. —SPIRITUAL LAWS.The living Heaven thy prayers respect,House at once and architect,Quarrying man's rejected hours,Builds therewith eternal towers;Sole and self-commanded works,Fears not undermining days,Grows by decays,And, by the famous might that lurks In reaction and recoil,Makes flame to freeze, and ice to boil;Forging, through swart arms of Offence,The silver seat of Innocence.WHENthe act of reflection takes place inthe mind,when we look at ourselves in the light of thought, we discover that our life is embosomed in beauty. Behind us, as we go, allthings assume pleasing forms, as clouds do far off. Not onlythings 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, thefoolish person, -however neglected in the passing, -have agrace in the past. Even the corpse that has lain in the chambers has added a solemn ornament to the house. Thesoul will not know either deformity or pain. If, in the hours of clear reason, we should speak the severest truth, we shouldsay, that we had never made a sacrifice. In these hours the mind seems so great, that nothing can be taken from us thatseems much. All loss, all pain, is particular; the universe remains to the heart unhurt. Neither vexations nor calamitiesabate our trust. No man ever stated his griefs as lightly ashe might. Allow for exaggeration in the most patient and sorely ridden hack that was ever driven. For it is only thefinite that has wrought and suffered; the infinite lies stretched in smiling repose.The intellectual life may be kept clean and healthful, if manwill live the life of nature, and not import into his mind difficulties which are none of his. No man need be perplexedin his speculations. Let him do and say what strictly belongs to him, and, though very ignorant of books, his nature shall56 ESSAY IV.not yield him any intellectual obstructions and doubts. Our young people are diseased with the theological problems of original sin, origin of evil, predestination, and the like.These never presented a practical difficulty to any man,-never darkened across any man's road, who did not go out of his way to seek them. These are the soul's mumps, and measles,and whooping-coughs, and those who have not caught them cannot describe their health or prescribe the cure. A simplemind will not know these enemies. It is quite another thing that he should be able to give account of his faith, and expound to another the theory of his self-union and freedom. This requires rare gifts. Yet, without this self-knowledge, there may be a sylvan strength and integrity in that which he is.A few strong instincts and a few plain rules " suffice us.My will never gave the images in my mind the rank they now take. The regular course of studies, the years of acade- mical and professional education, have not yielded me better facts than some idle books under the bench at the LatinSchool. 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 educationoften wastes its effort in attempts to thwart and balk this natural magnetism, which is sure to select what belongs to it.66In like manner, our moral nature is vitiated by any interference of our will. People represent virtue as a struggle, andtake to themselves great airs upon their attainments, and thequestion is everywhere vexed, when a noble nature is com- mended, whether the man is not better who strives withtemptation. But there is no merit in the matter. Either Godis there, or he is not there. We love characters in proportionas they are impulsive and spontaneous. The less a man thinks or knows about his virtues, the better we like him. Timoleon'svictories are the best victories; which ran and flowed likeHomer's verses, Plutarch said. When we see a soul whoseacts are all regal, graceful, and pleasant as roses, we must thank God that such things can be and are, and not turnsourly on the angel, and say, ' Crump is a better man with his grunting resistance to all his native devils.'Not less conspicuous is the preponderance of nature over will in all practical life. There is less intention in historythan we ascribe to it. We impute deep-laid, far- sighted plansto Cæsar and Napoleon; but the best of their power was innature, not in them. Men of an extraordinary success, in their honest moments, have always sung, ' Not unto us, notunto us.' According to the faith of their times, they have built altars to Fortune, or to Destiny, or to St. Julian. Theirsuccess lay in their parallelism to the course of thought, whichSPIRITUAL LAWS. 57found in them an unobstructed channel; and the wonders ofwhich they were the visible conductors seemed to the eye theirdeed. Did the wires generate the galvanism? It is even truethat there was less in them on which they could reflect, thanin another; as the virtue of a pipe is to be smooth and hollow.That which externally seemed will and immovableness waswillingness and self-annihilation. Could Shakespeare give atheory of Shakespeare? Could ever a man of prodigiousmathematical genius convey to others any insight into his methods? If he could communicate that secret, it wouldinstantly lose its exaggerated value, blending with the daylight and the vital energy the power to stand and to go.The lesson is forcibly taught by these observations, that ourlife might be much easier and simpler than we make it; thatthe world might be a happier place than it is; that there is noneed of struggles, convulsions, and despairs, of the wringing of the hands and the gnashing of the teeth; that we miscreateour own evils. We interfere with the optimism of nature; for,whenever we get this vantage- ground of the past, or of a wisermind in the present, we are able to discern that we are begirt with laws which execute themselves.The face of external nature teaches the same lesson. Naturewill not have us fret and fume. She does not like ourbenevolence or our learning much better than she likes our frauds and wars. When we come out of the caucus, or thebank, or the Abolition- convention, or the Temperance- meeting,or the Transcendental club, into the fields and woods, she says to us, ' So hot? my little Sir.'We are full of mechanical actions. We must needs intermeddle, and have things in our own way, until the sacrificesand virtues of society are odious. Love should make joy; butour benevolence is unhappy. Our Sunday- schools, and churches,and pauper- societies are yokes to the neck. We pain ourselvesto please nobody. There are natural ways of arriving at thesame ends at which these aim, but do not arrive. Why shouldall virtue work in one and the same way? Why should allgive dollars? It is very inconvenient to us country folk, andwe do not think any good will come of it. We have notdollars; merchants have; let them give them. Farmers will give corn; poets will sing; women will sew; labourers willlend a hand; the children will bring flowers. And why dragthis dead weight of a Sunday- school over the whole Christen- dom? It is natural and. beautiful that childhood shouldinquire, and maturity should teach; but it is time enough toanswer questions when they are asked. Do not shut up the young people against their will in a pew, and force the childrento ask them questions for an hour against their will.58 ESSAY IV.If we look wider, things are all alike; laws, and letters, and creeds, and modes of living, seem a travestie of truth. Oursociety is encumbered by ponderous machinery, which re- sembles the endless aqueducts which the Romans built overhill and dale, and which are superseded by the discovery of the law that water rises to the level of its source. It is aChinese wall which any nimble Tartar can leap over. It is astanding army, not so good as a peace. It is a graduated,titled, richly appointed empire, quite superfluous when townmeetings are found to answer just as well.Let us draw a lesson from nature, which always works by short ways. When the fruit is ripe, it falls. When the fruitis despatched, the leaf falls . The circuit of the waters is merefalling. 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 thesimplicity of a machine. He who sees moral nature out and out, and thoroughly knows how knowledge is acquired and character formed, is a pedant. The simplicity of nature is not that which may easily be read, but is inexhaustible. The last analysis can nowise be made. We judge of a man's wisdom by his hope, knowing that the perception of the in- exhaustibleness of nature is an immortal youth. The wild fertility of nature is felt in comparing our rigid names and reputations with our fluid consciousness. We pass in the world for sects and schools, for erudition and piety, and we are all the time jejune babes. One sees very well how Pyr- rhonism grew up. Every man sees that he is that middle point, whereof everything may be affirmed and denied withequal reason. He is old, he is young, he is very wise, he is altogether ignorant. He hears and feels what you say of the seraphim, and of the tin-pedler. There is no permanent wise man, except in the figment of the Stoics. We side with thehero, 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 circ*mstance, but in comparison with the grandeurs possible to the soul.A little consideration of what takes place around us everyday would show us, that a higher law than that of our will regulates events; that our painful labours are unnecessary,and fruitless; that only in our easy, simple, spontaneous action are we strong, and by contenting ourselves with obe- dience we become divine. Belief and love-a believing love will relieve us of a vast load of care. O my brothers, GodSPIRITUAL LAWS. 59exists. There is a soul at the centre of nature, and over thewill of every man, so that none of us can wrong the universe.It has so infused its strong enchantment into nature, that weprosper when we accept its advice, and when we struggle to wound its creatures, our hands are glued to our sides, or they beat our own breasts. The whole course of things goes toteach us faith. We need only obey. There is a guidance foreach of us, and by lowly listening we shall hear the right word.Why need you choose so painfully your place, and occupation,and associates, and modes of action, and of entertainment?Certainly there is a possible right for you that precludes theneed of balance and wilful election. For you there is a reality,a fit place and congenial duties . Place yourself in the middle of the stream of power and wisdom which animates all whomit 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, oftruth, 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 theheaven predicted from the beginning of the world, and stillpredicted from the bottom of the heart, would organize itself,as do now the rose, and the air, and the sun.ButI say, do not choose; but that is a figure of speech by which I would distinguish what is commonly called choice amongmen, 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.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 circ*mstance desirable to my constitution;and the action which I in all my years tend to do, is the workfor my faculties. We must hold a man amenable to reasonfor 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?not a calling in his character?Has heEach man has his own vocation. The talent is the call.There is one direction in which all space is open to him. Hehas faculties silently inviting him thither to endless exertion.He is like a ship in a river: he runs against obstructions onevery side but one; on that side all obstruction is taken away,and he sweeps serenely over a deepening channel into an in- finite sea. This talent and this call depend on his organization,or the mode in which the general soul incarnates itself in him.He inclines to do something which is easy to him, and good when it is done, but which no other man can do. He has norival. For the more truly he consults his own powers, the60 ESSAY IV.more difference will his work exhibit from the work of anyother. His ambition is exactly proportioned to his powers.The height of the pinnacle is determined by the breadth ofthe base. Every man has this call of the power to do somewhat unique, and no man has any other call. The pretencethat he has another call, a summons by name and personal election and outward signs that mark him extraordinary,and not in the roll of common men," is fanaticism, and betraysobtuseness to perceive that there is one mind in all the individuals, and no respect of persons therein.66By doing his work, he makes the need felt which he cansupply, and creates the taste by which he is enjoyed. By do- ing his own work, he unfolds himself. It is the vice of ourpublic speaking that it has not abandonment. Somewhere,not only every orator but every man should let out all thelength of all the reins; should find or make a frank and heartyexpression of what force and meaning is in him. The commonexperience is , that the man fits himself as well as he can to thecustomary details of that work or trade he falls into, and tendsit as a dog turns a spit. Then is he a part of the machine hemoves; the man is lost. Until he can manage to communicate himself to others in his full stature and proportion, he doesnot yet find his vocation. He must find in that an outlet forhis character, so that he may justify his work to their eyes.If the labour is mean, let him by his thinking and character make it liberal. Whatever he knows and thinks, whatever inhis apprehension is worth doing, that let him communicate, ormen will never knowand honour him aright. Foolish, wheneveryou take the meanness and formality of that thing you do,instead of converting it into the obedient spiracle of your character and aims.We like only such actions as have already long had the praise of men, and do not perceive that anything man can domay be divinely done. We think greatness entailed or organized in some places or duties, in certain offices or occasions,and do not see that Paganini can extract rapture from a catgut, and Eulenstein from a jews-harp, and a nimble-fingered lad out of shreds of paper with his scissors, and Landseer outof swine, and the hero out of the pitiful habitation and company in which he was hidden. What we call obscure condition or vulgar society is that condition and society whosepoetry is not yet written, but which you shall presently make as enviable and renowned as any. In our estimates, let ustake a lesson from kings. The parts of hospitality, the con- nection of families, the impressiveness of death, and a thousandother things, royalty makes its own estimate of, and a royal mindwill. To make habitually a new estimate that is elevation.SPIRITUAL LAWS. 61What a man does, that he has. What has he to do withhope or fear? In himself is his might. Let him regard nogood 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 onevery wind as the momentary signs of his infinite pro- ductiveness.He may have his own. A man's genius, the quality that differences him from every other, the susceptibility to oneclass of influences, the selection of what is fit for him, the rejection of what is unfit, determines for him the character of the universe. A man is a method, a progressive arrangement;a selecting principle, gathering his like to him, wherever hegoes. He takes only his own out of the multiplicity that sweeps and circles round him. He is like one of those boomswhich are set out from the shore on rivers to catch drift- wood,or like the loadstone amongst splinters of steel. Those facts,words, persons, which dwell in his memory without his being able to say why, remain, because they have a relation to himnot less real for being as yet unapprehended. They aresymbols of value to him, as they can interpret parts of his consciousness which he would vainly seek words for in theconventional images of books and other minds. What attractsmy attention shall have it, as I will go to the man who knocksat my door, whilst a thousand persons, as worthy, go by it, towhom I give no regard. It is enough that these particularsspeak to me. A few anecdotes, a few traits of character,manners, face, a few incidents, have an emphasis in yourmemory out of all proportion to their apparent significance, if you measure them by the ordinary standards. They relate toyour gift. Let them have their weight, and do not reject them,and cast about for illustration and facts more usual in literature. What your heart thinks great is great. The soul'semphasis is always right.Över all things that are agreeable to his nature and genius,the man has the highest right. Everywhere he may take whatbelongs to his spiritual estate, nor can he take anything else,though all doors were open, nor can all the force of men hinderhim from taking so much. It is vain to attempt to keep asecret from one who has a right to know it. It will tell itself.That mood into which a friend can bring us is his dominion over us. To the thoughts of that state of mind he has a right.All the secrets of that state of mind he can compel. This is alaw which statesmen use in practice. All the terrors of theFrench Republic, which held Austria in awe, were unable tocommand her diplomacy. But Napoleon sent to Vienna M. deNarbonne, one of the old noblesse, with the morals, manners,62 ESSAY IV.and name of that interest, saying, that it was indispensable tcsend to the old aristocracy of Europe men of the same con- nection, which, in fact, constitutes a sort of free-masonry.M. de Narbonne, in less than a fortnight, penetrated all the secrets of the imperial cabinet.Nothing seems so easy as to speak and to be understood.Yet a man may come to find that the strongest of defences andof 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 he wishes to conceal,his pupils will become as fully indoctrinated into that as intoany which he publishes. If you pour water into a vessel twisted into coils and angles, it is vain to say, I will pour itonly into this or that; —it will find its level in all. Men feeland act the consequences of your doctrine, without being ableto show how they follow. Showus an arc of the curve, and agood mathematician will find out the whole figure. We are always reasoning from the seen to the unseen. Hence theperfect intelligence that subsists between wise men of remoteages. A man cannot bury his meanings so deep in his book,but time and like-minded men will find them. Plato had asecret doctrine, had he? What secret can he conceal fromthe eyes of Bacon? of Montaigne? of Kant? Therefore,Aristotle said of his works, " They are published and not published."No man can learn what he has not preparation for learning,however near to his eyes is the object. A chemist may tellhis most precious secrets to a carpenter, and he shall be never the wiser-the secrets he would not utter to a chemist for anestate. God screens us evermore from premature ideas. Oureyes are holden that we cannot see things that stare us in the face, until the hour arrives when the mind is ripened; then we behold them, and the time when we saw them not is like adream.66Not in nature but in man is all the beauty and worth he sees. The world is very empty, and is indebted to this gilding,exalting soul for all its pride. Earth fills her lap withsplendours " not her own. The vale of Tempe, Tivoli, and Romeare earth and water, rocks and sky. There are as good earthand water in a thousand places, yet how unaffecting!People are not the better for the sun and moon, the horizonand the trees; as it is not observed that the keepers of Romangalleries, or the valets of painters, have any elevation of thought, or that librarians are wiser men than others. Thereare graces in the demeanour of a polished and noble person,which are lost upon the eye of a churl. These are like thestars whose light has not yet reached us.SPIRITUAL LAWS. 6366He may see what he maketh. Our dreams are the sequel of our waking knowledge. The visions of the night bear someproportion to the visions of the day. Hideous dreams areexaggerations of the sins of the day. We see our evil affectionsembodied in bad physiognomies. On the Alps, the traveller sometimes beholds his own shadow magnified to a giant, sothat every gesture of his hand is terrific. " My children, " saidan old man to his boys scared by a figure in the dark entry,my children, you will never see anything worse than your- selves." As in dreams, so in the scarcely less fluid events ofthe world, every man sees himself in colossal, without knowingthat it is himself. The good, compared to the evil which hesees, is as his own good to his own evil. Every quality of hismind is magnified in some one acquaintance, and every emotionof his heart in some one. He is like a quincunx of trees, which counts five, east, west, north, or south; or, an initial, medial,and terminal acrostic. And why not? He cleaves to oneperson, and avoids another, according to their likeness orunlikeness to himself, truly seeking himself in his associates,and moreover in his trade, and habits, and gestures, and meats,and drinks; and comes at last to be faithfully represented by every view you take of his circ*mstances.He may read what he writes. What can we see or acquire,but what we are? You have observed a skilful man reading Virgil. Well, that author is a thousand books to a thousandpersons. Take the book into your two hands, and read youreyes out; you will never find what I find. If any ingenious reader would have a monopcly of the wisdom or delighthe gets, he is as secure now the book is Englished, as if itwere imprisoned in the Pelews' tongue. It is with a good book as it is with good company. Introduce a base person among gentlemen; it is all to no purpose; he is not theirfellow. 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, whichadjust the relation of all persons to each other, by the mathe- matical measure of their havings and beings? Gertrude isenamoured of Guy; how high, how aristocratic, how Roman his mien and manners! to live with him were life indeed, andno purchase is too great; and heaven and earth are moved tothat end. Well, Gertrude has Guy; but what now avails howhigh, how aristocratic, how Roman his mien and manners, if his heart and aims are in the senate, in the theatre, and in thebilliard- room, and she has no aims, no conversation, that canenchant her graceful lord?He shall have his own society. We can love nothing but64 ESSAY IV.nature. The most wonderful talents, the most meritoriousexertions, really avail very little with us; but nearness or likeness of nature-how beautiful is the ease of its victory!Persons approach us famous for their beauty, for their accomplishments, worthy of all wonder for their charms and gifts;they dedicate their own skill to the hour and the company,with very imperfect result. To be sure, it would be ungrateful in us not to praise them loudly. Then, when all is done, aperson of related mind, a brother or sister by nature, comes tous so softly and easily, so nearly and intimately, as if it were the blood in our proper veins, that we feel as if some one wasgone, instead of another having come; we are utterly relievedand refreshed; it is a sort of joyful solitude. We foolishlythink in our days of sin, that we must court friends bycompliance to the customs of society, to its dress, its breeding,and its estimates. But only that soul can be my friend whichI encounter on the line of my own march, that soul to which Ido not decline, and which does not decline to me, but, nativeof the same celestial latitude, repeats in its own all my experience. The scholar forgets himself, and apes the customs and costumes of the man of the world, to deserve the smile ofbeauty, and follows some giddy girl, not yet taught by religious passion to know the noble woman with all that is serene,oracular, and beautiful in her soul. Let him be great, and loveshall follow him. Nothing is more deeply punished than theneglect ofthe 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, withprofound unconcern, to set his own rate. Hero or driveller, it meddles not in the matter. It will certainly accept your ownmeasure of your doing and being, whether you sneak aboutand 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 mayteach by doing, and not otherwise. If he can communicatehimself, he can teach, but not by words. He teaches whogives, and he learns who receives. There is no teaching untilthe pupil is brought into the same state or principle in whichyou are; a transfusion takes place; he is you, and you are he;then is a teaching; and by no unfriendly chance or badcompany can he ever quite lose the benefit. But your propo- sitions run out of one ear as they ran in at the other. We see it advertised that Mr. Grand will deliver an oration on theSPIRITUAL LAWS. 65Fourth of July, and Mr. Hand before the Mechanics' Association, and we do not go thither, because we know that thesegentlemen will not communicate their own character andexperience to the company. If we had reason to expect sucha confidence, we should go through all inconvenience andopposition. The sick would be carried in litters. But a publicoration is an escapade, a non- committal, an apology, a gag, and not a communication, not a speech, not a man.A like Nemesis presides over all intellectual works. Wehave yet to learn, that the thing uttered in words is not therefore affirmed. It must affirm itself, or no forms of logicor of oath can give it evidence. The sentence must alsocontain its own apology for being spoken.The effect of any writing on the public mind is mathematically measurable by its depth of thought. How muchwater does it draw? If it awaken you to think, if it lift youfrom 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 thehour. The way to speak and write what shall not go out offashion, 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 toan eternal public. That statement only is fit to be made public, which you have come at in attempting to satisfy yourown curiosity. The writer who takes his subject from his ear,and not from his heart, should know that he has lost as muchas he seems to have gained, and when the empty book hasgathered all its praise, and half the people say, ' What poetry!what genius!' it still needs fuel to make fire. That onlyprofits which is profitable. Life alone can impart life; and though we should burst, we can only be valued as we make ourselves valuable. There is no luck in literary reputation.They who make up the final verdict upon every book are notthe partial and noisy readers of the hour when it appears; buta court as of angels, a public not to be bribed, not to be entreated, and not to be overawed, decides upon every man's titleto fame. Only those books come down which deserve to last.Gilt edges, vellum, and morocco, and presentation- copies to all the libraries, will not preserve a book in circulation beyond itsintrinsic date. It must go with all Walpole's Noble andRoyal 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 dozenpersons who read and understand Plato:-never enough to pay for an edition of his works; yet to every generation these VOL. I. F66 ESSAY IV.66 66 come duly down, for the sake of those few persons, as if God brought them in his hand. No book," said Bentley, wasever written down by any but itself." The permanence ofall books is fixed by no effort friendly or hostile, but by theirown specific gravity, or the intrinsic importance of their contents to the constant mind of man. 66'Do not troubleyourself 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. ”66In like manner the effect of every action is measured by thedepth of the sentiment from which it proceeds. The great man knew not that he was great. It took a century ortwo for that fact to appear. What he did, he did because hemust; it was the most natural thing in the world, and grew out of the circ*mstances of the moment. But now, everything 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 andstones, but errors and lies. The laws of disease, physicianssay, are as beautiful as the laws of health. Our philosophy isaffirmative, and readily accepts the testimony of negativefacts, as every shadow points to the sun. By a divine necessity, every fact in nature is constrained to offer its testimony.Human character evermore publishes itself. The mostfugitive deed and word, the mere air of doing a thing, theintimated 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 havegiven no opinion on the times, on the church, on slavery, onmarriage, on socialism, on secret societies, on the college, onparties and persons, that your verdict is still expected_with curiosity as a reserved wisdom. Far otherwise; your silence answers veryy loud. Youhave no oracle to utter; and your fellowmen have learned that you cannot help them; for, oracles speak.Doth not wisdom cry, and understanding put forth her voice?Dreadful limits are set in nature to the powers of dissimulation. Truth tyrannizes over the unwilling members of thebody. 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, theeye is muddy and sometimes asquint.I have heard an experienced counsellor say, that he neverfeared the effect upon a jury of a lawyer who does not believeSPIRITUAL LAWS. 67in his heart that his client ought to have a verdict. If hedoes not believe it, his unbelief will appear to the jury, despiteall his protestations, and will become their unbelief. This isthat law whereby a work of art, of whatever kind, sets us in the same state of mind wherein the artist was when he madeit. That which we do not believe, we cannot adequately say,though we may repeat the words never so often . It was thisconviction which Swedenborg expressed, when he described agroup of persons in the spiritual world endeavouring in vain to articulate a proposition which they did not believe; butthey could not, though they twisted and folded their lips even to indignation.A man passes for that he is worth. Very idle is all curiosityconcerning other people's estimate of us, and all fear ofremaining unknown is not less so. If a man know that hecan do any thing-that he can do it better than any one else—he has a pledge of the acknowledgment of that fact by allpersons. The world is full of judgment- days, and into every assembly that a man enters, in every action he attempts, he isgauged and stamped. In every troop of boys that whoop andrun in each yard and square, a new-comer is as well andaccurately weighed in the course of a few days, and stamped with his right number, as if he had undergone a formal trial ofhis strength, speed, and temper. A stranger comes from adistant school, with better dress, with trinkets in his pockets,with airs and pretensions: an older boy says to himself, ' It's of no use; we shall find him out to- morrow.' ' What has hedone?' 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 andWashington; 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 realgreatness. Pretension never wrote an Iliad, nor drove backXerxes, nor christianized the world, nor abolished slavery.As much virtue as there is, so much appears; as muchgoodness as there is , so much reverence it commands. All the devils respect virtue. The high, the generous, the self- devoted sect will always instruct and command mankind. Never was a sincere word utterly lost. Never a magnanimity fell to the ground, but there is some heart to greet and accept it un- expectedly. 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; boastingnothing. There is confession in the glances of our eyes; in our smiles; in salutations; and the grasp of hands. His sin bedaubs him, mars all his good impression. Men know not68 ESSAY IV.why they do not trust him; but they do not trust him. Hisvice glasses his eye, cuts lines of mean expression in his cheek, pinches the nose, sets the mark of the beast on the backof the head, and writes O fool! fool! on the forehead of a king.If you would not be known to do anything, never do it. Aman may play the fool in the drifts of a desert, but every grain of sand shall seem to see. He may be a solitary eater,but he cannot keep his foolish counsel. A broken complexion,a swinish look, ungenerous acts, and the want of due knowledge-all blab. Can a cook, a Chiffinch, an Iachimo, be mistaken for Zeno or Paul? Confucius exclaimed, -" How a man be concealed! How can a man be concealed!"On the other hand, the hero fears not, that, if he withholdthe avowal of a just and brave act, it will go unwitnessed and unloved. One knows it-himself-and is pledged by it tosweetness of peace, and to nobleness of aim, which will provein the end a better proclamation of it than the relating of the incident. Virtue is the adherence in action to the nature ofthings, and the nature of things makes it prevalent. It consists in a perpetual substitution of being for seeming, and with sublime propriety God is described as saying, I AM.The lesson which these observations convey is, Be, and notLet us acquiesce. Let us take our bloated nothingness out of the path of the divine circuits. Let us unlearn our wisdom of the world. Let us lie low in the Lord's power, andlearn that truth alone makes rich and great.seem .If you visit your friend, why need you apologize for nothaving visited him, and waste his time and deface your own act? Visit him now. Let him feel that the highest love hascome to see him, in thee, its lowest organ. Or why need youtorment yourself and friend by secret self-reproaches that you have not assisted him or complimented him with gifts and salutations heretofore? Be a gift and a benediction. Shinewith real light, and not with the borrowed reflection of gifts.Common men are apologies for men; they bow the head,excuse themselves with prolix reasons, and accumulate ap- pearances, because the substance is not.We are full of these superstitions of sense, the worship ofmagnitude. We call the poet inactive, because he is not apresident, 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 lifeare not in the visible facts of our choice of a calling, ourmarriage, our acquisition of an office, and the like, but in asilent thought by the wayside as we walk; in a thought which revises our entire manner of life, and says, - -Thus hast thoudone, but it were better thus.' And all our after years, likeSPIRITUAL LAWS. 69menials, serve and wait on this, and, according to their ability,execute its will. This revisal or correction is a constant force,which, as a tendency, reaches through our lifetime. Theobject of the man, the aim of these moments, is to make day- light shine through him, to suffer the law to traverse hiswhole being without obstruction, so that, on what pointsoever of his doing your eye falls, it shall report truly of hischaracter, whether it be his diet, his house, his religiousforms, his society, his mirth, his vote, his opposition. Nowhe is not hom*ogeneous, but heterogeneous, and the ray does nottraverse: there are no thorough lights: but the eye of the beholder is puzzled, detecting many unlike tendencies, and alife not yet at one.Why should we make it a point with our false modesty to disparage that man we are, and that form of being assigned to us? A good man is contented. I love and honourEpaminondas, but I do not wish to be Epaminondas. I holdit more just to love the world of this hour, than the world ofhis hour. Nor can you, if I am true, excite me to the leastuneasiness by saying, ' He acted, and thou sittest still .' I seeaction to be good, when the need is, and sitting still to be also good. Epaminondas, if he was the man I take him for, wouldhave sat still with joy and peace, if his lot had been mine.Heaven is large, and affords space for all modes of love and fortitude. Why should we be busybodies and superserviceable? Action and inaction are alike to the true. One pieceof the tree is cut for a weatherco*ck, and one for the sleeper ofa bridge; the virtue of the wood is apparent in both.I desire not to disgrace the soul. The fact that I am herecertainly shows me that the soul had need of an organ here.Shall I not assume the post? Shall I skulk and dodge andduck with my unseasonable apologies and vain modesty, andimagine my being here impertinent? less pertinent than Epaminondas or Homer being there? and that the soul did not know its own needs? Besides, without any reasoning onthe matter, I have no discontent. The good soul nourishesme, and unlocks new magazines of power and enjoyment tome every day. I will not meanly decline the immensity ofgood, because I have heard that it has come to others 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 theancestor of every action is a thought. The poor mind does not seem to itself to be anything, unless it have an outsidebadge-some Gentoo diet, or Quaker coat, or Calvinistic prayer- meeting, or philanthropic society, or a great donation,or a high office, or, any how, some wild contrasting action to70 ESSAY IV.testify that it is somewhat. The rich mind lies in the sun and sleeps, and is Nature. To think is to act.Let us, if we must have great actions, make our own so.All action is of an infinite elasticity, and the least admits ofbeing inflated with the celestial air until it eclipses the sun and moon. Let us seek one peace by fidelity. Let me heedmy duties. Why need I go gadding into the scenes andphilosophy of Greek and Italian history, before I have justifiedmyself to my benefactors? How dare I read Washington'scampaigns, when I have not answered the letters of my owncorrespondents? Is not that a just objection to much of ourreading? It is a pusillanimous desertion of our work to gazeafter our neighbours. It is peeping. Byron says of JackBunting-" He knew not what to say, and so he swore. "I may say it of our preposterous use of books-He knew notwhat to do, and so he read. I can think of nothing to fill mytime with, and I find the Life of Brant. It is a very extravagant compliment to pay to Brant, or to General Schuyler, orto General Washington. My time should be as good as theirtime-my facts, my net of relations, as good as theirs, oreither of theirs. Rather let me do my work so well that otheridlers, 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 thefact of an identical nature. Bonaparte knew but one merit,and rewarded in one and the same way the good soldier, thegood astronomer, the good poet, the good player. The poet uses the names of Cæsar, of Tamerlane, of Bonduca, of Belisarius; the painter uses the conventional story of the VirginMary, of Paul, of Peter. He does not, therefore, defer to the nature of these accidental men, of these stock heroes. If thepoet write a true drama, then he is Cæsar, and not the playerof Cæsar; then the selfsame strain of thought, emotion as pure, wit as subtle, motions as swift, mounting, extravagant,and a heart as great, self- sufficing, dauntless, which on the waves of its love and hope can uplift all that is reckoned solidand precious in the world, -palaces, gardens, money, navies,kingdoms, marking its own incomparable worth by the slightit casts on these gauds of men, these all are his, and by thepower of these he rouses the nations. Let a man believe in God, and not in names and places and persons. Let the greatsoul incarnated in some woman's form, poor and sad and single,in some Dolly or Joan, go out to service, and sweep chambersand scour floors, and its effulgent daybeams cannot be muffledLOVE. 71or hid, but to sweep and scour will instantly appear supremeand beautiful actions, the top and radiance of human life, andall people will get mops and brooms; until, lo! suddenly the great soul has enshrined itself in some other form, and done some other deed, and that is now the flower and head of allliving nature.We are the photometers, we the irritable goldleaf and tinfoil that measure the accumulations of the subtle element. Weknow the authentic effects of the true fire through every one of its million disguises.V.-LOVE.I was as a gem concealed;Me myburning ray revealed.Koran.Eachof itsjoys ripens into anewwant. Nature, uncontainable, flowing, forelooking, in the first sentiment of kindness anticipates already a benevolence which shall lose all particularregards in its general light. The introduction to this felicityis in a private and tender relation of one to one, which is theenchantment of human life; which, like a certain divine rageand enthusiasm, seizes on man at one period, and works arevolution in his mind and body; unites him to his race,pledges him to the domestic and civic relations, carries himwith new sympathy into nature, enhances the power of the senses, opens the imagination, adds to his character heroic andsacred attributes, establishes marriage, and gives permanenceto human society.The natural association of the sentiment of love with theheyday of the blood seems to require, that in order to portray it in vivid tints, which every youth and maid should confess tobe true to their throbbing experience, one must not be too old.The delicious fancies of youth reject the least savour of amature philosophy, as chilling with age and pedantry theirpurple bloom. And, therefore, I know I incur the imputationof unnecessary hardness and stoicism from those who compose the Court and Parliament of Love. But from these formidablecensors I shall appeal to my seniors. For it is to be consideredthat this passion of which we speak, though it begin with theyoung, yet forsakes not the old, or rather suffers no one whois truly its servant to grow old, but makes the aged participa- tors of it not less than the tender maiden, though in a different72 ESSAY V. -and nobler sort. For it is a fire that, kindling its first embersin the narrow nook of a private bosom, 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 wholeworld and all nature with its generous flames. It matters not,therefore, whether we attempt to describe the passion attwenty, at thirty, or at eighty years. He who paints it at thefirst 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, bypatience and the Muses' aid, we may attain to that inward view of the law, which shall describe a truth ever young andbeautiful, so central that it shall commend itself to the eye, at whatever angle beholden.Alas!And the first condition is, that we must leave a too close andlingering adherence to facts, and study the sentiment as it appeared in hope and not in history. For each man sees hisown life defaced and disfigured, as the life of man is not, tohis imagination. Each man sees over his own experience acertain stain of error, whilst that of other men looks fair andideal. Let any man go back to those delicious relations whichmake the beauty of his life, which have given him sincerest instruction and nourishment, he will shrink and moan.I know not why, but infinite compunctions embitter in mature life the remembrances of budding joy, and cover every belovedname. Everything is beautiful seen from the point of theintellect, 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-dwellcare, and canker, and fear. With thought, with the ideal, isimmortal hilarity, the rose of joy. Round it all the Musessing. But grief cleaves to names, and persons, and the partial interests of to-day and yesterday.The strong bent of nature is seen in the proportion which this topic of personal relations usurps in the conversation of society. What do we wish to know of any worthy person somuch, as how he has sped in the history of this sentiment?What books in the circulating libraries circulate? How we glow over these novels of passion, when the story is told withany spark of truth and nature! And what fastens attention,in the intercourse of life, like any passage betraying affectionbetween two parties? Perhaps we never saw them before,and never shall meet them again. But we see them exchangea glance, or betray a deep emotion, and we are no longer strangers. We understand them, and take the warmestinterest in the development of the romance. All mankindlove a lover. The earliest demonstrations of complacency andLOVE. 73kindness are nature's most winning pictures. It is the dawnof civility and grace in the coarse and rustic. The rudevillage boy teases the girls about the school- house door; -butto-day he comes running into the entry, and meets one fairchild disposing her satchel; he holds her books to help her,and instantly it seems to him as if she removed herself fromhim infinitely, and was a sacred precinct. Among the throngof 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 canavert his eyes from the engaging, half- artful, half-artless ways of school- girls who go into the country shops to buy a skein ofsilk or a sheet of paper, and talk half an hour about nothingwith the broad-faced, good- natured shop-boy. In the villagethey are on a perfect equality, which love delights in, andwithout 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 thegood boy the most agreeable, confiding relations, what with their fun and their earnest, about Edgar, and Jonas, andAlmira, and who was invited to the party, and who danced atthe 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 anyrisk such as Milton deplores as incident to scholars and great men.I have been told, that in some public discourses of mine, myreverence for the intellect has made me unjustly cold to thepersonal relations. But now I almost shrink at the remem- brance of such disparaging words. For persons are love'sworld, and the coldest philosopher cannot recount the debt ofthe young soul wandering here in nature to the power of love,without being tempted to unsay, as treasonable to nature,aught derogatory to the social instincts. For, though thecelestial rapture falling out of heaven seizes only upon thoseof tender age, and although a beauty overpowering all analysisor comparison, and putting us quite beside ourselves, we canseldom see after thirty years, yet the remembrance of these visions outlasts all other remembrances, and is a wreath offlowers on the oldest brows. But here is a strange fact: itmay seem to many men, in revising their experience, that theyhave no fairer page in their life's book than the deliciousmemory of some passages wherein affection contrived to give awitchcraft surpassing the deep attraction of its own truth to aparcel of accidental and trivial circ*mstances. In lookingbackward, they may find that several things which were not74 ESSAY V.the charm have more reality to this groping memory than the charm itself which embalmed them. But be our experiencein particulars what it may, no man ever forgot the visitationsof that power to his heart and brain, which created all thingsnew; which was the dawn in him of music, poetry, and art;which made the face of nature radiant with purple light, the morning and the night varied enchantments; when a single tone of one voice could make the heart bound, and the mosttrivial circ*mstance associated with one form is put in theamber of memory; when he became all eye when one was present, and all memory when one was gone; when the youthbecomes a watcher of windows, and studious of a glove, a veil,a ribbon, or the wheels of a carriage; when no place is toosolitary, and none too silent, for him who has richer companyand sweeter conversation in his new thoughts, than any old friends, though best and purest, can give him; for the figures,the motions, the words of the beloved object are not like other images written in water, but, as Plutarch said, " enamelled infire," and make the study of midnight." Thou art not gone being gone, where'er thou art ,Thou leav'st in him thy watchful eyes, in him thy loving heart. "In the noon and the afternoon of life we still throb at therecollection of days when happiness was not happy enough,but must be drugged by 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 boiledall night on the pillow with the generous deed it resolved on;when the moonlight was a pleasing fever, and the stars wereletters, and the flowers ciphers, and the air was coined into song, when all business seemed an impertinence, and all themen and women running to and fro in the streets, merepictures.The passion rebuilds the world for the youth. It makes allthings alive and significant. Nature grows conscious. Every bird on the boughs of the tree sings now to his heart and soul.The notes are almost articulate. The clouds have faces as helooks on them. The trees of the forest, the waving grass, and the peeping flowers, have grown intelligent; and he almost fears to trust them with the secret which they seem to invite.Yet nature soothes and sympathizes. In the green solitude he finds a dearer home than with men."Fountain-heads and pathless groves,Places which pale passion loves,LOVE. 75135Moonlight walks, when all the fowls Are safely housed, save bats and owls,A midnight bell , a passing groan, —These are the sounds we feed upon."Behold there in the wood the fine madman! He is a palaceof sweet sounds and sights; he dilates; he is twice a man; hewalks with arms akimbo; he soliloquises; he accosts the grass and the trees; he feels the blood of the violet, the clover, andthe lily in his veins; and he talks with the brook that wets his foot.The heats that have opened his perceptions of natural beauty have made him love music and verse. It is a fact oftenobserved, that men have written good verses under the inspiration of passion, who cannot write well under any other circ*mstances.The like force has the passion over all his nature. It expands the sentiment; it makes the clown gentle, and gives the cowardheart. Into the most pitiful and abject it will infuse a heart and courage to defy the world, so only it have the countenanceof the beloved object. In giving him to another, it still moregives him to himself. He is a new man, with new perceptions ,new and keener purposes, and a religious solemnity of cha- racter and aims. He does not longer appertain to his familyand society; he is somewhat; he is a person; he is a soul.And here let us examine a little nearer the nature of thatinfluence which is thus potent over the human youth. Beauty,whose revelation to man we now celebrate, welcome as the sunwherever it pleases to shine, which pleases everybody with it and with themselves, seems sufficient to itself. The lovercannot paint his maiden to his fancy poor and solitary. Like a tree in flower, so much soft, budding, informing loveliness issociety for itself, and she teaches his eye why Beauty waspictured with Loves and Graces attending her steps. Her existence makes the world rich. Though she excludes allother persons from his attention as cheap and unworthy, sheindemnifies him by carrying out her own being into somewhat impersonal, large, mundane, so that the maiden stands to himfor a representative of all select things and virtues. For thatreason, the lover never sees personal resemblances in his mistress to her kindred or to others. His friends find in her alikeness to her mother, or her sisters, or to persons not of her blood. The lover sees no resemblance except to summerevenings and diamond mornings, to rainbows and the song of birds.The ancients called beauty the flowering of virtue. Whocan analyze the nameless charm which glances from one and another face and form? We are touched with emotions of76 ESSAY V.tenderness and complacency, but we cannot find whereat thisdainty emotion, this wandering gleam, points. It is destroyed for the imagination by any attempt to refer it to organization.Nor does it point to any relations of friendship or love knownand described in society, but, as it seems to me, to a quite other and unattainable sphere, to relations of transcendentdelicacy and sweetness, to what roses and violets hint andforeshow. We cannot approach beauty. Its nature is likeopaline doves'-neck lustres, hovering and evanescent. Herein it resembles the most excellent things, which all have thisrainbow character, defying all attempts at appropriation and use. What else did Jean Paul Richter signify, when he saidto music, " Away! away! thou speakest to me of things whichin all my endless life I have not found, and shall not find.”The same fluency may be observed in every work of theplastic arts. The statue is then beautiful when it begins to beincomprehensible, when it is passing out of criticism, and canno longer be defined by compass and measuring- wand, butdemands 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 isalways represented in a transition from that which is repre- sentable to the senses, to that which is not. Then first itceases to be a stone. The same remark holds of painting.And of poetry, the success is not attained when it Tulls and satisfies, but when it astonishes and fires us with new en- deavours after the unattainable. Concerning it, Landor inquires"whether it is not to be referred to some purer state of sensation and existence. "In like manner, personal beauty is then first charming anditself, when it dissatisfies us with any end; when it becomes astory without an end; when it suggests gleams and visions,and not earthly satisfactions; when it makes the beholder feelhis unworthiness; when he cannot feel his right to it, thoughhe were Cæsar; he cannot feel more right to it than to thefirmament and the splendours of a sunset.Hence arose the saying, " If I love you, what is that to you?" We say so, because we feel that what we love is not inyour will, but above it. It is not you, but your radiance. It is that which you know not in yourself, and can never know.This agrees well with that high philosophy of Beauty which the ancient writers delighted in; for they said that the soul ofman, embodied here on earth, went roaming up and down inquest 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, andunable to see any other objects than those of this world, whichare but shadows of real things. Therefore, the Deity sendsthe glory of youth before the soul, that it may avail itself ofLOVE. 77beautiful bodies as aids to its recollection of the celestial goodand fair; and the man beholding such a person in the femalesex runs to her, and finds the highest joy in contemplating theform, movement, and intelligence of this person, because it suggests to him the presence of that which indeed is within thebeauty, 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 thepromise which beauty holds out; but if, accepting the hint ofthese visions and suggestions which beauty makes to his mind,the soul passes through the body, and falls to admire strokesof character, and the lovers contemplate one another in their discourses and their actions, then they pass to the true palaceof beauty, more and more inflame their love of it, and by thislove extinguishing the base affection, as the sun puts out thefire by shining on the hearth, they become pure and hallowed.By conversation with that which is in itself excellent, magnanimous, lowly, and just, the lover comes to a warmer love ofthese nobilities, and a quicker apprehension of them. Then he passes from loving them in one to loving them in all, andso is the one beautiful soul only the door through which he enters to the society of all true and pure souls. In theparticular society of his mate, he attains a clearer sight of anyspot, any taint, which her beauty has contracted from thisworld, and is able to point it out, and this with mutual joy that they are now able, without offence, to indicate blemishesand hindrances in each other, and give to each all help and comfort in curing the same. And, beholding in many soulsthe traits of the divine beauty, and separating in each soul that which is divine from the taint which it has contracted inthe world, the lover ascends to the highest beauty, to the loveand knowledge of the Divinity, by steps on this ladder of created souls.Somewhat like this have the truly wise told us of love in all ages. The doctrine is not old, nor is it new. If Plato,Plutarch, and Apuleius taught it, so have Petrarch, Angelo ,and Milton. It awaits a truer unfolding in opposition andrebuke to that subterranean prudence which presides at marriages with words that take hold of the upper world, whilst one eye is prowling in the cellar, so that its gravest discourse hasa savour of hams and powdering-tubs. Worst, when this sensualism intrudes into the education of young women, andwithers the hope and affection of human nature, by teaching that marriage signifies nothing but a housewife's thrift, and that woman's life has no other aim.But this dream of love, though beautiful, is only one scene78 ESSAY V.in our play. In the procession of the soul from within outward,it enlarges its circles ever, like the pebble thrown into thepond, or the light proceeding from an orb. The rays of thesoul 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 acquaintance, on politics, and geography, and history. But things are ever grouping themselvesaccording to higher or more interior laws. Neighbourhood,size, numbers, habits, persons, lose by degrees their power over us. Cause and effect, real affinities, the longing for harmonybetween the soul and the circ*mstance, the progressive, idealizing instinct, predominate later, and the step backward from the higher to the lower relations is impossible. Thus evenlove, which is the deification of persons, must become moreimpersonal every day. Of this at first it gives no hint. Littlethink the youth and maiden who are glancing at each otheracross 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 exchangingglances, they advance to acts of courtesy, of gallantry, then to fiery passion, to plighting troth, and marriage. Passion beholdsits object as a perfect unit. The soul is wholly embodied, and the body is wholly ensouled." Her pure and eloquent blood Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought,That one might almost say her body thought."Romeo, if dead, should be cut up into little stars to make theheavens fine. Life, with this pair, has no other aim, asks nomore, than Juliet,-than Romeo. Night, day, studies, talents,kingdoms, religion, are all contained in this form full of soul,in this soul which is all form. The lovers delight in endearments,in avowals of love, in comparisons of their regards. Whenalone, they solace themselves with the remembered image of the other. Does that other see the same star, the samemelting cloud, read the same book, feel the same emotion, thatnow delight me? They try and weigh their affection, and,adding up costly advantages, friends, opportunities, properties,exult in discovering that willingly, joyfully, they would give all as a ransom for the beautiful, the beloved head, not one hairof which shall be harmed. But the lot of humanity is on thesechildren. Danger, sorrow, and pain arrive to them, as to all.Love prays. It makes covenants with Eternal Power inbehalf 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 relationLOVE. 79into a golden ray, and bathes the soul in a new and sweeterelement, is yet a temporary state. Not always can flowers,pearls, poetry, protestations, nor even home in another heart,content the awful soul that dwells in clay. It arouses itself at last from these endearments, as toys, and puts on the harness,and aspires to vast and universal aims. The soul which is inthe soul of each, craving a perfect beatitude, detects incongruities, defects, and disproportion in the behaviour of theother. Hence arise surprise, expostulation, and pain. Yetthat which drew them to each other was signs of loveliness,signs of virtue; and these virtues are there, however eclipsed.They appear and reappear, and continue to attract; but theregard 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 alpossible positions of the parties, to employ all the resources ofeach, and acquaint each with the strength and weakness of theother. 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 circ*mstances vary every hour. Theangels that inhabit this temple of the body appear at thewindows, and the gnomes and vices also. By all the virtues they are united. If there be virtue, all the vices are known assuch; they confess and flee. Their once flaming regard issobered by time in either breast, and, losing in violence whatit gains in extent, it becomes a thorough good understanding.They resign each other, without complaint, to the good officeswhich man and woman are severally appointed to discharge intime, and exchange the passion which once could not losesight of its object, for a cheerful, disengaged furtherance,whether present or absent, of each other's designs. At lastthey discover that all which at first drew themtogether-thoseonce sacred features, that magical play of charms-was deciduous, had a prospective end, like the scaffolding by which thehouse was built; and the purification of the intellect and theheart, from year to year, is the real marriage, foreseen andprepared from the first, and wholly above their consciousness.Looking at these aims with which two persons, a man and awoman, so variously and correlatively gifted, are shut up inone house to spend in the nuptial society forty or fifty years, Ido not wonder at the emphasis with which the heart prophesiesthis crisis from early infancy, at the profuse beauty with which80 ESSAY VI.the instincts deck the nuptial bower, and nature, and intellect,and art emulate each other in the gifts and the melody theybring 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 wisdomeverywhere, to the end of increasing virtue and wisdom. We are by nature observers, and thereby learners. That is ourpermanent state. But we are often made to feel that ouraffections are but tents of a night. Though slowly and withpain, the objects of the affections change, as the objects ofthought do. There are moments when the affections rule andabsorb the man, and make his happiness dependent on aperson or persons. But in health the mind is presently seenagain-its overarching vault, bright with galaxies of immutablelights, and the warm loves and fears that swept over us as clouds, must lose their finite character and blend with God, toattain their own perfection. But we need not fear that we canlose anything by the progress of the soul. The soul may be trusted to the end. That which is so beautiful and attractiveas these relations must be succeeded and supplanted only bywhat is more beautiful, and so on for ever.WVI.-FRIENDSHIP.A ruddy drop of manly bloodThe 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 kindlinessLike daily sunrise there.My careful heart was free again, -O friend, my bosom said,Through thee alone the sky is arched,Through thee the rose is red,All things through thee take nobler form ,And look beyond the earth,And is the mill-round of our fateA sun-path in thy worth.Me too thy nobleness has taught To master my despair;The fountains of my hidden lifeAre through thy friendship fair.WE have a great deal more kindness than is ever spoken.Maugre all the selfishness that chills like east winds theworld, the whole human family is bathed with an element ofFRIENDSHIP. 81love like a fine ether. How many persons we meet in houses,whom we scarcely speak to, whom yet we honour, and whohonour us! How many we see in the street, or sit with inchurch, whom, though silently, we warmly rejoice to be with!Read the language of these wandering eye-beams. The heart knoweth.The effect of the indulgence of this human affection is acertain cordial exhilaration. In poetry, and in common speech,the emotions of benevolence and complacency which are felt towards others are likened to the material effects of fire; soswift, or much more swift, more active, more cheering, arethese fine inward irradiations. From the highest degree ofpassionate love, to the lowest degree of good-will, they make the sweetness of life.Our intellectual and active powers increase with our affection.The scholar sits down to write, and all his years of meditation do not furnish him with one good thought or happy expression;but it is necessary to write a letter to a friend-and, forthwith,troops of gentle thoughts invest themselves, on every hand,with chosen words. See, in any house where virtue andself-respect abide, the palpitation which the approach of astranger causes. A commended stranger is expected andannounced, and an uneasiness betwixt pleasure and pain invades all the hearts of a household. His arrival almostbrings fear to the good hearts that would welcome him. Thehouse is dusted, all things fly into their places, the old coat isexchanged for the new, and they must get up a dinner if they can. Of a commended stranger, only the good report is toldby others, only the good and new is heard by us. He standsto 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 withfear. The same idea exalts conversation with him. We talkbetter than we are wont. We have the nimblest fancy, aricher memory, and our dumb devil has taken leave for thetime. For long hours we can continue a series of sincere,graceful, rich communications, drawn from the oldest, secretestexperience, so that they who sit by, of our own kinsfolk andacquaintance, shall feel a lively surprise at our unusual powers.But as soon as the stranger begins to intrude his partialities,his definitions, his defects, into the conversation, it is all over.He has heard the first, the last and best he will ever hear from us. He is no stranger now. Vulgarity, ignorance, misapprehension are old acquaintances. Now, when he comes, he may get the order, the dress, and the dinner-but the throbbing of the heart, and the communications of the soul, no more.What is so pleasant as these jets of affection which make aVOL. I. G82 ESSAY VI.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 indulgeour affections, the earth is metamorphosed; there is no winter,and no night; all tragedies, all ennuis, vanish, -all duties even; nothing fills the proceeding eternity but the forms all radiant of beloved persons. Let the soul be assured that somewhere in the universe it should rejoin its friend, and it would be content and cheerful alone for a thousand years.I awoke this morning with devout thanksgiving for my friends, the old and the new. Shall I not call God the Beautiful, who daily showeth himself so to me in his gifts? I chide society, I embrace solitude, and yet I amnot 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 under- stands me, becomes mine, a possession for all time. Nor is nature so poor but she gives me this joy several times, and thus we weave social threads of our own, a new web of relations; and, as many thoughts in succession substantiate themselves, we shall by and by stand in a new world of our own creation, and no longer strangers and pilgrims in atraditionary globe. My friends have come to me unsought.The great God gave them to me. By oldest right, by the divine affinity of virtue with itself, I find them, or rather not I,but the Deity in me and in them derides and cancels the thick walls of individual character, relation, age, sex, circ*mstance,at which he usually connives, and now makes many one. Highthanks I owe you, excellent lovers, who carry out the world for me to new and noble depths, and enlarge the meaning ofall 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 some of them? I know not,but I fear it not; for my relation to them is so pure, that wehold by simple affinity, and the Genius of my life being thus social, the same affinity will exert its energy on whomsoever is as noble as these men and women, wherever I may be.I confess to an extreme tenderness of nature on this point.It is almost dangerous to me to " crush the sweet poison of misused wine " of the affections. A new person is to me agreat event, and hinders me from sleep. I have often had finefancies about persons which have given me delicious hoursbut the joy ends in the day; it yields no fruit. Thought is not born of it; my action is very little modified. I must feelpride in my friend's accomplishments as if they were mine, ——and a property in his virtues. I feel as warmly when he is

FRIENDSHIP. 83praised, as the lover when he hears applause of his engaged maiden. We over-estimate the conscience of our friend. Hisgoodness seems better than our goodness, his nature finer, his temptations less. Everything that is his, -his name, hisform, his dress, books, and instruments, -fancy enhances. Our own thought sounds new and larger from his mouth.Yet the systole and diastole of the heart are not withouttheir analogy in the ebb and flow of love. Friendship, likethe immortality of the soul, is too good to be believed. Thelover, beholding his maiden, half knows that she is not verily that which he worships; and in the golden hour of friendship,we are surprised with shades of suspicion and unbelief. We doubt that we bestow on our hero the virtues in which heshines, and afterwards worship the form to which we have ascribed this divine inhabitation. In strictness, the soul doesnot respect men as it respects itself. In strict science allpersons underlie the same condition of an infinite remoteness.Shall we fear to cool our love by mining for the metaphysicalfoundation of this Elysian temple? Shall I not be as real as the things I see? If I am, I shall not fear to know them forwhat they are. Their essence is not less beautiful than theirappearance, though it needs finer organs for its apprehension.The root of the plant is not unsightly to science, though forchaplets and festoons we cut the stem short. And I musthazard the production of the bald fact amidst these pleasingreveries, though it should prove an Egyptian skull at our banquet. A man who stands united with his thought conceives magnificently of himself. He is conscious of a universalsuccess, even though bought by uniform particular failures.No advantages, no powers, no gold or force, can be any match for him. I cannot choose but rely on my own poverty morethan on your wealth. I cannot make your consciousness tantamount to mine. Only the star dazzles; the planet has afaint, moon-like ray. I hear what you say of the admirableparts and tried temper of the party you praise, but I see wellthat for all his purple cloaks I shall not like him, unless he isat last a poor Greek like me. I cannot deny it, O friend, that the vast shadow of the Phenomenal includes thee also in itspied and painted immensity, -thee, also, compared with whomall else is shadow. Thou art not Being, as Truth is, as Justiceis,-thou art not my soul, but a picture and effigy of that.Thou hast come to me lately, and already thou art seizing thyhat and cloak. Is it not that the soul puts forth friends asthe tree puts forth leaves, and presently, by the germination of new buds, extrudes the old leaf? The law of nature isalternation for evermore. Each electrical state superinducesthe opposite. The soul environs itself with friends, that it84 ESSAY VI.may enter into a grander self-acquaintance or solitude; and it goes alone for a season, that it may exalt its conversation orsociety. This method betrays itself along the whole history of our personal relations. The instinct of affection revives thehope of union with our mates, and the returning sense of insulation recalls us from the chase. Thus every man passeshis life in the search after friendship, and if he should record his true sentiment, he might write a letter like this to each new candidate for his love.DEAR FRIEND: -If I was sure of thee, sure of thy capacity, sure to match mymood with thine, I should never think again of trifles inrelation to thy comings and goings. I am not very wise; mymoods are quite attainable; and I respect thy genius; it is tome as yet unfathomed; yet dare I not presume in thee aperfect 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 toweave cobweb, and not cloth. Our friendships hurry to shortand poor conclusions, because we have made them a texture ofwine and dreams, instead of the tough fibre of the humanheart. The laws of friendship are austere and eternal, of one web with the laws of nature and of morals. But we haveaimed at a swift and petty benefit, to suck a sudden sweetness.We snatch at the slowest fruit in the whole garden of God,which many summers and many winters must ripen. Weseek our friend not sacredly, but with an adulterate passion which would appropriate him to ourselves. In vain. We are armed all over with subtle antagonisms, which, as soon as wemeet, begin to play, and translate all poetry into stale prose.Almost all people descend to meet. All association must be acompromise, and, what is worst, the very flower and aroma of the flower of each of the beautiful natures disappears as theyapproach each other. What a perpetual disappointment isactual society, even of the virtuous and gifted! ~~After interviews have been compassed with long foresight, we must betormented presently by baffled blows, by sudden, unseasonableapathies, by epilepsies of wit and of animal spirits, in the heyday of friendship and thought. Our faculties do not play us true, and both parties are relieved by solitude.I ought to be equal to every relation. It makes no differencehow many friends I have, and what content I can find in conversing with each, if there be one to whom I am not equal. IfI have shrunk unequal from one contest, the joy I find in allFRIENDSHIP. 85the rest becomes mean and cowardly. I should hate myself,if then I made my other friends my asylum."The valiant warrior famoused for fight,After a hundred victories, once foiled,Is from the book of honour razed quite,And all the rest forgot for which he toiled."Our impatience is thus sharply rebuked. Bashfulness andapathy are a tough husk, in which a delicate organization is protected from premature ripening. It would be lost if it knew itself before any of the best souls were yet ripe enoughto know and own it. Respect the naturlangsamkeit whichhardens the ruby in a million years, and works in duration, inwhich Alps and Andes come and go as rainbows. The goodspirit 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 inour regards, but the austerest worth; let us approach our friend with an audacious trust in the truth of his heart, in thebreadth, impossible to be overturned, of his foundations.The attractions of this subject are not to be resisted, and Ileave, for the time, all account of subordinate social benefit, tospeak ofthat select and sacred relation which is a kind of absolute, and which even leaves the language of love suspicious and common, so much is this purer, and nothing is so much divine.I do not wish to treat friendships daintily, but with roughest courage. When they are real, they are not glass threads orfrostwork, but the solidest thing we know. For now, after so many ages of experience, what do we know of nature, or ofourselves? Not one step has man taken toward the solutionof the problem of his destiny. In one condemnation of folly stand the whole universe of men. But the sweet sincerity ofjoy and peace, which I drawfrom this alliance with my brother's soul, is the nut itself, whereof all nature and all thought is butthe husk and shell. Happy is the house that shelters a friend!It might well be built, like a festal bower or arch, to entertainhim 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 thegreat games, where the first-born of the world are the compe- titors. He proposes himself for contests where Time, Want,Danger, are in the lists, and he alone is victor who has truthenough in his constitution to preserve the delicacy of his beautyfrom the wear and tear of all these. The gifts of fortune maybe present or absent, but all the speed in that contest depends on intrinsic nobleness, and the contempt of trifles. There aretwo elements that go to the composition of friendship, each so86 ESSAY VI.sovereign that I can detect no superiority in either, no reasonwhy either should be first named. One is Truth. A friend isa person with whom I may be sincere. Before him I may think aloud. I am arrived at last in the presence of a man soreal and equal, that I may drop even those undermost garments of dissimulation, courtesy, and second thought, which mennever put off, and may deal with him with the simplicity and wholeness with which one chemical atom meets another.Sincerity is the luxury allowed, like diadems and authority,only to the highest rank, that being permitted to speak truth,as having none above it to court or conform unto. Every man alone is sincere. At the entrance of a second person, hypocrisybegins. We parry and fend the approach of our fellow-manby compliments, by gossip, by amusem*nts, by affairs. We cover up our thought from him under a hundred folds. Iknew a man, who, under a certain religious frenzy, cast offthis drapery, and, omitting all compliment and commonplace,spoke to the conscience of every person he encountered, andthat with great insight and beauty. At first he was resisted,and all men agreed he was mad. But persisting, as indeed hecould not help doing, for some time in this course, he attainedto the advantage of bringing every man of his acquaintance into true relations with him. No man would think of speakingfalsely with him, or of putting him off with any chat ofmarkets or reading-rooms. But every man was constrainedby so much sincerity to the like plain- dealing, and what love ofnature, what poetry, what symbol of truth he had, he didcertainly show him. But to most of us society shows not itsface 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, isit not? We can seldom go erect. Almost every man wemeet requires some civility, -requires to be humoured; he hassome fame, some talent, some whim of religion or philanthropy in his head that is not to be questioned, and which spoils all conversation with him. But a friend is a sane man whoexercises not my ingenuity, but me. My friend gives me entertainment without requiring any stipulation on my part.A friend, therefore, is a sort of paradox in nature. I whoalone am, I who see nothing in nature whose existence I canaffirm with equal evidence to my own, behold nowthe semblance of my being, in all its height, variety, and curiosity, reiteratedin a foreign form; so that a friend may well be reckoned the masterpiece of nature.The other element of friendship is tenderness. We areholden to men by every sort of tie, by blood, by pride, by fear,by hope, by lucre, by lust, by hate, by admiration, by every circ*mstance and badge and trifle, but we can scarce believeFRIENDSHIP 87that so much character can subsist in another as to draw usby love. Can another be so blessed, and we so pure, that wecan offer him tenderness? When a man becomes dear to me,I have touched the goal of fortune. I find very little writtendirectly to the heart of this matter in books. And yet I haveone text which I cannot choose but remember. My authorsays-" ]I offer myself faintly and bluntly to those whose Ieffectually am, and tender myself least to him to whom I amthe most devoted. " I wish that friendship should have feet,as well as eyes and eloquence. It must plant itself on the ground, before it vaults over the moon. I wish it to be a littleof a citizen, before it is quite a cherub. We chide the citizen because he makes love a commodity. It is an exchange ofgifts, of useful loans; it is good neighbourhood; it watcheswith the sick; it holds the pall at the funeral; and quite loses sight of the delicacies and nobility of the relation . Butthough we cannot find the god under this disguise of a sutler,yet, on the other hand, we cannot forgive the poet if he spins his thread too fine, and does not substantiate his romance bythe municipal virtues of justice, punctuality, fidelity, and pity.I hate the prostitution of the name of friendship to signify modish and worldly alliances. I much prefer the company ofploughboys and tin-peddlers, to the silken and perfumed amity which celebrates its days of encounter by a frivolous display,by rides in a curricle, and dinners at the best taverns. Theend of friendship is a commerce the most strict and homelythat can be joined; more strict than any of which we haveexperience. It is for aid and comfort through all the relationsand passages of life and death. It is fit for serene days, andgraceful gifts, and country rambles, but also for rough roads and hard fare, shipwreck, poverty, and persecution . It keeps company with the sallies of the wit and the trances of religion.We are to dignify to each other the daily needs and offices ofman's life, and embellish it by courage, wisdom, and unity. It should never fall into something usual and settled, but shouldbe alert and inventive, and add rhyme and reason to whatwas drudgery.Friendship may be said to require natures so rare and costly,each so well tempered and so happily adapted, and withal so circ*mstanced, (for even in that particular, a poet says, lovedemands that the parties be altogether paired,) that its satisfaction can very seldom be assured. It cannot subsist in its perfection, say some of those who are learned in this warm loreof the heart, betwixt more than two. I am not quite so strictin my terms, perhaps because I have never known so high afellowship as others. I please my imagination more with acircle of godlike men and women variously related to each88 ESSAY VI.other, and between whom subsists a lofty intelligence. But Ifind this law of one to one peremptory for conversation, whichis the practice and consummation of friendship. Do not mix waters too much. The best mix as ill as good and bad. Youshall have very useful and cheering discourse at several timeswith two several men, but let all three of you come together,and you shall not have one new and hearty word. Two maytalk and one may hear, but three cannot take part in a conversation of the most sincere and searching sort. In good company there is never such discourse between two, across thetable, as takes place when you leave them alone. In good company, the individuals merge their egotism into a socialsoul exactly coextensive with the several consciousnesses therepresent. No partialities of friend to friend, no fondnesses ofbrother to sister, of wife to husband, are there pertinent, butquite otherwise. Only he may then speak who can sail on thecommon thought of the party, and not poorly limited to his own. Now this convention, which good sense demands, destroys the high freedom of great conversation, which requiresan absolute running of two souls into one.No two men but, being left alone with each other, enter intosimpler relations. Yet it is affinity that determines which two shall converse. Unrelated men give little joy to each other;will never suspect the latent powers of each. We talk some- times of a great talent for conversation, as if it were a permanent property in some individuals. Conversation is an evan- escent relation, no more. A man is reputed to have thoughtand 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 andunlikeness, that piques each with the presence of power and ofconsent in the other party. Let me be alone to the end of theworld, rather than that my friend should overstep, by a wordor a look, his real sympathy. I am equally balked by antagonism and by compliance. Let him not cease an instant tobe himself. The only joy I have in his being mine, is thatthe not mine is mine. I hate, where I looked for a manlyfurtherance, or at least a manly resistance, to find a mush of concession. Better be a nettle in the side of your friendthan his echo. The condition which high friendship demandsis ability to do without it. That high office requires greatand sublime parts. There must be very two, before therecan be very one. Let it be an alliance of two large, formidable natures, mutually beheld, mutually feared, before yetFRIENDSHIP. 89they recognize the deep identity which beneath these disparities unites them.He only is fit for this society who is magnanimous; who issure that greatness and goodness are always economy; who is not swift to intermeddle with his fortunes. Let him notintermeddle with this. Leave to the diamond its ages to grow,nor expect to accelerate the births of the eternal. Friendshipdemands a religious treatment. Wetalk of choosing our friends,but friends are self- elected . Reverence is a great part of it .Treat your friend as a spectacle. Of course he has merits that are not yours, and that you cannot honour, if you must needshold him close to your person. Stand aside; give those meritsroom; let them mount and expand. Are you the friend ofyour friend's buttons, or of his thought? To a great heart hewill still be a stranger in a thousand particulars, that he maycome near in the holiest ground. Leave it to girls and boys toregard a friend as property, and to suck a short and all- con- founding pleasure, instead of the noblest benefit.Let us buy our entrance to this guild by a long probation.Why should we desecrate noble and beautiful souls by intrud- ing on them? Why insist on rash personal relations with your friend? Why go to his house, or know his mother andbrother 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, athought, a sincerity, a glance from him, I want, but not news,nor pottage. I can get politics, and chat, and neighbourlyconveniences from cheaper companions. Should not the societyof my friend be to me poetic, pure, universal, and great as nature itself? Ought I to feel that our tie is profane in comparison with yonder bar of cloud that sleeps on the horizon,or that clump of waving grass that divides the brook? Letus not vilify, but raise it to that standard. That great, defying eye, that scornful beauty of his mien and action, do not piqueyourself on reducing, but rather fortify and enhance. Worship his superiorities; wish him not less by a thought, but hoardand tell them all. Guard him as thy counterpart. Let himbe to thee for ever a sort of beautiful enemy, untameable, devoutly revered, and not a trivial conveniency to be soon out- grown and cast aside. The hues of the opal, the light of thediamond, are not to be seen, if the eye is too near.To myfriend I write a letter, and from him I receive a letter. Thatseems to you a little. It suffices me. It is a spiritual giftworthy of him to give, and of me to receive. It profanes no- body. In these warm lines the heart will trust itself, as it willnot to the tongue, and pour out the prophecy of a godlierexistence than all the annals of heroism have yet made good.90 ESSAY VI.Respect so far the holy laws of this fellowship as not toprejudice its perfect flower by your impatience for its opening.We must be our own before we can be another's. There is atleast this satisfaction in crime, according to the Latin proverb;-you can speak to your accomplice on even terms. Crimenquos inquinat, æquat. To those whom we admire and love, atfirst we cannot. ~ Yet the least defect of self- possession vitiates,in myjudgment, the entire relation. There can never be deep peace between two spirits, never mutual respect, until, in their dialogue, each stands for the whole world.What is so great as friendship, let us carry with what grandeur of spirit we can. Let us be silent-so we mayhear the whisper of the gods. Let us not interfere. Who setyou to cast about what you should say to the select souls, orhow to say anything to such? No matter how ingenious, nomatter how graceful and bland. There are innumerable degrees of folly and wisdom, and for you to say aught is to be frivolous. Wait, and thy heart shall speak. Wait until thenecessary and everlasting overpowers you, until day and nightavail themselves of your lips. The only reward of virtue is virtue; the only way to have a friend is to be one. You shallnot come nearer a man by getting into his house. If unlike,his soul only flees the faster from you, and you shall nevercatch a true glance of his eye. We see the noble afar off, andthey repel us; why should we intrude? Late-very late-we perceive that no arrangements, no introductions, no consuetudesor habits of society, would be of any avail to establish us in such relations with them as we desire-but solely the uprise ofnature in us to the same degree it is in them; then shall we meet as water with water; and if we should not meet them then,we shall not want them, for we are already they. In the lastanalysis, love is only the reflection of a man's own worthiness from other men. Men have sometimes exchanged names withtheir 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 theless easy to establish it with flesh and blood. We walk alone in the world. Friends, such as we desire, are dreams andfables. But a sublime hope cheers ever the faithful heart,that elsewhere, in other regions of the universal power, souls are now acting, enduring, and daring, which can love us, andwhich we can love. We may congratulate ourselves that theperiod of nonage, of follies, of blunders, and of shame, is passed in solitude, and when we are finished men, we shall grasp heroichands in heroic hands. Only be admonished by what youalready see, not to strike leagues of friendship with cheap persons, where no friendship can be. Our impatience betraysFRIENDSHIP. 91us into rash and foolish alliances which no God attends. Bypersisting in your path, though you forfeit the little you gain the great. You demonstrate yourself, so as to put yourselfout of the reach of false relations, and you draw to you thefirst-born of the world-those rare pilgrims whereof only oneor two wander in nature at once, and before whom the vulgar great show as spectres and shadows merely.WeIt is foolish to be afraid of making our ties too spiritual, asif so we could lose any genuine love. Whatever correction ofour popular views we make from insight, nature will be sure tobear us out in, and though it seem to rob us of some joy, willrepay us with a greater. Let us feel, if we will, the absolute insulation of man. We are sure that we have all in us.go to Europe, or we pursue persons, or we read books, in theinstinctive faith that these will call it out and reveal us toourselves. Beggars all. The persons are such as we; theEurope an old faded garment of dead persons; the bookstheir ghosts. Let us drop this idolatry. Let us give overthis mendicancy. Let us even bid our dearest friends farewell,and defy them, saying, ' Who are you? Unhand me: I willbe dependent no more.' Ah! seest thou not, O brother, thatthus we part only to meet again on a higher platform, andonly be more each other's, because we are more our own? Afriend is Janus- faced: he looks to the past and the future. Heis the child of all my foregoing hours, the prophet of thoseto come, and the harbinger of a greater friend.I do then with my friends as I do with my books. I wouldhave them where I can find them, but I seldom use them. Wemust have society on our own terms, and admit or exclude it on the slightest cause. I cannot afford to speak much withmy friend. If he is great, he makes me so great that I cannot descend to converse. In the great days, presentiments hoverbefore me in the firmament. I ought then to dedicate myselfto them. I go in that I may seize them, I go out that I mayseize them. I fear only that I may lose them receding intothe 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 wouldindeed give me a certain household joy to quit this lofty seeking, this spiritual astronomy, or search of stars, and comedown to warm sympathies with you; but then I know well Ishall mourn always the vanishing of my mighty gods. It istrue, next week I shall have languid moods, when I can wellafford to occupy myself with foreign objects; then I shallregret the lost literature of your mind, and wish you wereby my side again. But if you come, perhaps you will fill mymind only with new visions, not with yourself but with your92 ESSAY VII.lustres, and I shall not be able any more than now to conversewith you. So I will owe to my friends this evanescent intercourse. I will receive from them, not what they have, butwhat they are. They shall give me that which properly they cannot give, but which emanates from them. But they shallnot hold me by any relations less subtle and pure. We willmeet as though we met not, and part as though we partednot.It has seemed to me lately more possible than I knew, to carry a friendship greatly, on one side, without due correspondence on the other. Why should I cumber myself withregrets that the receiver is not capacious? It never troublesthe sun that some of his rays fall wide and vain into ungrateful space, and only a small part on the reflecting planet. Letyour greatness educate the crude and cold companion. If heis unequal, he will presently pass away; but thou art enlarged by thy own shining, and, no longer a mate for frogs andworms, dost soar and burn with the gods of the empyrean. It is thought a disgrace to love unrequited. But the greatwill see that true love cannot be unrequited. True lovetranscends the unworthy object, and dwells and broods on theeternal, and when the poor interposed mask crumbles, it isnot sad, but feels rid of so much earth, and feels its independ- ency the surer. Yet these things may hardly be said withouta sort of treachery to the relation. The essence of friendship is entireness, a total magnanimity and trust. It must notsurmise or provide for infirmity. It treats its object as a god,that it may deify both.VII.-PRUDENCE.Theme no poet gladly sung,Fair to old and foul to young,Scorn not thou the love of parts,And the articles of arts.Grandeur of the perfect sphere Thanks the atoms that cohere.Wittlight that of the negative sort?""My prudence HAT right have I to write on Prudence, whereof I haveconsists in avoiding and going without, not in the inventing ofmeans and methods, not in adroit steering, not in gentlerepairing. I have no skill to make money spend well, nogenius in my economy, and whoever sees my garden discovers that I must have some other garden. Yet I love facts, andhate lubricity, and people without perception. Then I havePRUDENCE. 93the same title to write on prudence, that I have to write onpoetry or holiness. We write from aspiration and antagonism,as well as from experience. We paint those qualities which wedo not possess. The poet admires the man of energy and tactics; the merchant breeds his son for the church or thebar: and where a man is not vain and egotistic, you shall findwhat he has not by his praise. Moreover, it would be hardlyhonest in me not to balance these fine lyric words of Love andFriendship with words of coarser sound, and, whilst my debtto my senses is real and constant, not to own it in passing.Prudence is the virtue of the senses. It is the science ofappearances. It is the outmost action of the inward life. Itis God taking thought for oxen. It moves matter after thelaws of matter. It is content to seek health of body by complying with physical conditions, and health of mind by the laws of the intellect.The world of the senses is a world of shows; it does notexist for itself, but has a symbolic character; and a trueprudence or law of shows, recognises the co-presence of other laws, and knows that its own office is subaltern; knows that it is surface and not centre where it works. Prudence is falsewhen detached. It is legitimate when it is the NaturalHistory 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 theworld. It is sufficient, to our present purpose, to indicate three. One class live to the utility of the symbol; esteeminghealth and wealth a final good. Another class live above thismark to the beauty of the symbol; as the poet, and artist, and the naturalist, and man of science. A third class live abovethe beauty of the symbol to the beauty of the thing signified;these are wise men. The first class have common sense; thesecond, taste; and the third, spiritual perception . Once in along time, a man traverses the whole scale, and sees and enjoysthe 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 winkingsof a base prudence, which is a devotion to matter, as if wepossessed no other faculties than the palate, the nose, thetouch, the eye and ear; a prudence which adores the Rule ofThree, which never subscribes, which never gives, which seldomlends, and asks but one question of any project-Will it bake bread? This is a disease like a thickening of the skin untilthe vital organs are destroyed. But culture, revealing the94 ESSAY VII.high origin of the apparent world, and aiming at the perfection of the man as the end, degrades everything else, as healthand bodily life, into means. It sees prudence not to be aseveral faculty, but a name for wisdom and virtue conversing with the body and its wants. Cultivated men always feel and speak so, as if a great fortune, the achievement of a civil orsocial measure, great personal influence, a graceful and commanding address, had their value as proofs of the energy ofthe spirit. If a man lose his balance, and immerse himselfin any trades or pleasures for their own sake, he may be agood wheel or pin, but he is not a cultivated man.The spurious prudence, making the senses final, is the godof sots and cowards, and is the subject of all comedy. It isnature'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-theorder of the world and the distribution of affairs and timesbeing studied with the co-perception of their subordinateplace, will reward any degree of attention. For our existence,thus apparently attached in nature to the sun and the returning moon and the periods which they mark-so susceptible toclimate and to country, so alive to social good and evil, so fondof 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 conditioned, as they are, and keeps these laws, that it may enjoytheir proper good. It respects space and time, climate, want,sleep, the law of polarity, growth, and death. There revolveto give bound and period to his being, on all sides, the sun andmoon, the great formalists in the sky: here lies stubborn matter, and will not swerve from its chemical routine. Hereis a planted globe, pierced and belted with natural laws, and fenced and distributed externally with civil partitions and properties which impose new restraints on the young inhabitant.We eat of the bread which grows in the field. We live by the air which blows around us, and we are poisoned by the airthat is too cold or too hot, too dry or too wet. Time, whichshows so vacant, indivisible, and divine in its coming, is slitand 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 anaffair to be transacted with a man without heart or brains;and the stinging recollection of an injurious or very awkward word-these eat up the hours. Do what we can, summer will have its flies: if we walkin the woods, we must feed mosquitoes:if we go a-fishing, we must expect a wet coat. Then climate isPRUDENCE. 95a great impediment to idle persons: we often resolve to give up the care of the weather, but still we regard the clouds and the rain.We are instructed by these petty experiences which usurpthe hours and years. The hard soil and four months of snow make the inhabitant of the northern temperate zone wiser andabler than his fellow who enjoys the fixed smile of the tropics.The islander may ramble all day at will. At night, he maysleep on a mat under the moon, and wherever a wild date- treegrows, nature has, without a prayer even, spread a table for his morning meal. The northerner is perforce a householder.He must brew, bake, salt, and preserve his food, and pile wood and coal. But as it happens that not one stroke can labourlay to, without some new acquaintance with nature; and as nature is inexhaustibly significant, the inhabitants of these climates have always excelled the southerner in force. Such is the value of these matters, that a man who knows other things can never know too much of these. Let him have accurateperceptions. Let him, if he have hands, handle; if eyes,measure and discriminate; let him accept and hive every fact of chemistry, natural history, and economics; the more he has,the less is he willing to spare any one. Time is always bringing the occasions that disclose their value. Some wisdom comesout of every natural and innocent action. The domestic man,who loves no music so well as his kitchen clock, and the airswhich the logs sing to him as they burn on the hearth, has solaces which others never dream of. The application ofmeans to ends insures victory and the songs of victory, notless in a farm or a shop than in the tactics of party or of war.The good husband finds method as efficient in the packing of fire- wood in a shed, or in the harvesting of fruits in the cellar,as in Peninsular campaigns or the files of the Department of State. In the rainy day, he builds a work-bench, or gets his tool-box set in the corner of the barn- chamber, and stored withnails, gimlet, pincers, screwdriver, and chisel. Herein he tastesan old joy of youth and childhood, the cat-like love of garrets,presses, and corn-chambers, and of the conveniences of long housekeeping. His garden or his poultry-yard tells him many pleasant anecdotes. One might find argument for optimism in the abundant flow of this saccharine element of pleasure inevery suburb and extremity of the good world. Let a man keep the law any law-and his way will be strown with satisfactions. There is more difference in the quality of our pleasures than in the amount.IfOn the other hand, nature punishes any neglect of prudence.you think the senses final, obey their law. If you believe in the soul, do not clutch at sensual sweetness before it is ripe on96 ESSAY VII.the slow tree of cause and effect. It is vinegar to the eyes, todeal with men of loose and imperfect perception. Dr. Johnsonis reported to have said-" If the child says he looked out ofthis window, when he looked out of that—whip him." Our American character is marked by a more than average delightin accurate perception, which is shown by the currency of the byword, " No mistake." But the discomfort of unpunctuality,of confusion of thought about facts, of inattention to the wants of to-morrow, is of no nation. The beautiful laws oftime and space, once dislocated by our inaptitude, are holesand dens. If the hive be disturbed by rash and stupid hands,instead of honey, it will yield us bees. Our words and actionsto be fair must be timely. A gay and pleasant sound is thewhetting of the scythe in the mornings of June; yet what is more lonesome and sad than the sound of a whetstone ormower's rifle, when it is too late in the season to make hay?Scatter-brained and " afternoon men" spoil much more thantheir own affair, in spoiling the temper of those who deal withthem. I have seen a criticism on some paintings, of which Iam reminded when I see the shiftless and unhappy men whoare not true to their senses. The last Grand Duke of Weimar,a man of superior understanding, said:-" I have sometimesremarked in the presence of great works of art, and just nowespecially, in Dresden, howmuch a certain property contributesto the effect which gives life to the figures, and to the lifean irresistible truth. This property is the hitting, in all thefigures we draw, the right centre of gravity. I mean, theplacing the figures firm upon their feet, making the handsgrasp, and fastening the eyes on the spot where they shouldlook. Even lifeless figures, as vessels and stools-let them bedrawn ever so correctly-lose all effect so soon as they lack theresting upon their centre of gravity, and have a certain swimming and oscillating appearance. The Raphael, in the Dresdengallery, (the only greatly affecting picture which I have seen, )is the quietest and most passionless piece you can imagine, acouple of saints who worship the Virgin and Child. Nevertheless, it awakens a deeper impression than the contortions often crucified martyrs. For, beside all the resistless beauty ofform, it possesses in the highest degree the property of theperpendicularity of all the figures." This perpendicularity wedemand of all the figures in this picture of life. Let themstand on their feet, and not float and swing. Let us knowwhere to find them. Let them discriminate between what theyremember and what they dreamed, call a spade a spade, give us facts, and honour their own senses with trust.But what man shall dare tax another with imprudence?Who is prudent? The men we call greatest are least in thisPRUDENCE. 97kingdom. There is a certain fatal dislocation in our relationto nature, distorting our modes of living, and making every law our enemy, which seems at last to have aroused all the witand virtue in the world to ponder the question of Reform.We must call the highest prudence to counsel, and ask why health and beauty and genius should now be the exception,rather than the rule, of human nature? We do not know theproperties 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. Poetsshould be lawgivers; that is, the boldest lyric inspiration should not chide and insult, but should announce and lead, thecivil code, and the day's work. But now the two things seemirreconcilably parted. We have violated law upon law, until we stand amidst ruins, and when by chance we espy a coin- cidence 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 soundorganization should be universal. Genius should be the childof genius, and every child should be inspired; but now it isnot to be predicted of any child, and nowhere is it pure. Wecall partial half-lights, by courtesy, genius; talent which converts itself to money; talent which glitters to-day, that it maydine and sleep well to- morrow; and society is officered by menof parts, as they are properly called, and not by divine men.These use their gifts to refine luxury, not to abolish it. Geniusis always ascetic; and piety and love. Appetite shows to thefiner souls as a disease, and they find beauty in rites and bounds that resist it.We have found out fine names to cover our sensualitywithal, but no gifts can raise intemperance. The man of talent affects to call his transgressions of the laws ofthe senses trivial, and to count them nothing considered with his devotion to his art. His art never taught him lewdness, nor the love of wine, nor the wish to reap where he had not sowed. His art is less for every deduction from his holiness, and less for every defect of common sense. On him who scorned the world, ashe said, the scorned world wreaks its revenge. He that de- spiseth small things will perish by little and little. Goethe's Tasso is very likely to be a pretty fair historical portrait, and that is true tragedy. It does not seem to me so genuine grief when some tyrannous Richard the Third oppresses and slays ascore of innocent persons, as when Antonio and Tasso, both apparently right, wrong each other. One living after the maxims of this world, and consistent and true to them, the other fired with all divine sentiments, yet grasping also at the pleasures of sense, without submitting to their law. That is aVOL. I. H98 ESSAY VII.grief we all feel, a knot we cannot untie. Tasso's is no infrequent case in modern biography. A man of genius, of an ardent temperament, reckless of physical laws, self- indulgent,becomes presently unfortunate, querulous, a "discomfortablecousin," a thorn to himself and to others.The scholar shames us by his bifold life. Whilst somethinghigher than prudence is active, he is admirable; when commonsense is wanted, he is an encumbrance. Yesterday, Cæsar was not so great; to- day, the felon at the gallows' foot is notmore miserable. Yesterday, radiant with the light of an ideal world, in which he lives, the first of men; and now oppressedby wants and by sickness, for which he must thank himself.He resembles the pitiful drivellers, whom travellers describe asfrequenting the bazaars of Constantinople, who_skulk aboutall day, yellow, emaciated, ragged, sneaking; and at evening,when the bazaars are open, slink to the opium-shop, swallow their morsel, and become tranquil and glorified seers. Andwho has not seen the tragedy of imprudent genius, strug- gling for years with paltry pecuniary difficulties, at lastsinking, chilled, exhausted, and fruitless, like a giant slaugh- tered by pins?Is it not better that a man should accept the first pains andmortifications of this sort, which nature is not slack in sendinghim, as hints that he must expect no other good than the just fruit of his own labour and self- denial? Health, bread, climate,social position, have their importance, and he will give them their due. Let him esteem Nature a perpetual counsellor, andher perfections the exact measure of our deviations. Let himmake the night night, and the day day. Let him control thehabit of expense. Let him see that as much wisdom may be expended on a private economy as on an empire, and as muchwisdom may be drawn from it. The laws of the world arewritten out for him on every piece of money in his hand.There is nothing he will not be the better for knowing, were itonly the wisdom of Poor Richard; orthe State- Street prudenceof buying by the acre to sell by the foot; or the thrift of theagriculturist, to stick a tree between whiles, because it willgrow whilst he sleeps; or the prudence which consists inhusbanding little strokes of the tool, little portions of time,particles of stock, and small gains. The eye of prudence may never shut. Iron, if kept at the ironmonger's, will rust; beer,if not brewed in the right state of the atmosphere, will sour;timber of ships will rot at sea, or, if laid up high and dry, willstrain, warp, and dry-rot; money, if kept by us, yields no rent,and is liable to loss; if invested, is liable to depreciation of theparticular kind of stock. Strike, says the smith, the iron iswhite; keep the rake, says the haymaker, as nigh the scythe asPRUDENCE. 99you can, and the cart as nigh the rake. Our Yankee trade isreputed to be very much on the extreme of this prudence. Ittakes bank-notes-good, bad, clean, ragged-and saves itselfby the speed with which it passes them off. Iron cannot rust,nor beer sour, nor timber rot, nor calicoes go out of fashion,nor money stocks depreciate, in the few swift moments inwhich the Yankee suffers any one of them to remain in hispossession. In skating over thin ice, our safety is in ourspeed.Let him learn a prudence of a higher strain. Let him learnthat everything in nature, even motes and feathers, go by law and not by luck, and that what he sows he reaps. By diligenceand self-command, let him put the bread he eats at his owndisposal, 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 lostin waiting! let him not make his fellow- creatures wait. How many words and promises are promises of conversation! lethis be words of fate. When he sees a folded and sealed scrapof 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 beingacross all these distracting forces, and keep a slender human word among the storms, distances, and accidents that drive ush*ther and thither, and, by persistency, make the paltry force of one man reappear to redeem its pledge, after months and years, in the most distant climates.We must not try to write the laws of any one virtue, lookingat that only. Human nature loves no contradictions, but issymmetrical. The prudence which secures an outward wellbeing is not to be studied by one set of men, whilst heroismand holiness are studied by another, but they are reconcilable.Prudence concerns the present time, persons, property, andexisting forms. But as every fact hath its roots in the soul,and, if the soul were changed, would cease to be, or wouldbecome some other thing, the proper administration of outwardthings will always rest on a just apprehension of their causeand origin, that is, the good man will be the wise man, and thesingle- hearted, the politic man. Every violation of truth is notonly a sort of suicide in the liar, but is a stab at the health ofhuman society. On the most profitable lie, the course ofevents presentlylays a destructive tax; whilst frankness invitesfrankness, puts the parties on a convenient footing, and makestheir business a friendship. Trust men, and they will be trueto you; treat them greatly, and they will show themselvesgreat, though they make an exception in your favour to all their rules of trade.100 ESSAY VII.So, in regard to disagreeable and formidable things, prudence does not consist in evasion, or in flight, but in courage. He whowishes to walk in the most peaceful parts of life with any serenity must screw himself up to resolution. Let him frontthe object of his worst apprehension, and his stoutness willcommonly make his fear groundless. The Latin proverb says,that " in battles the eye is first overcome." Entire self-possession may make a battle very little more dangerous to life thana match at foils or at football. Examples are cited by soldiers,of men who have seen the cannon pointed, and the fire givento it, and who have stepped aside from the path of the ball.The terrors of the storm are chiefly confined to the parlourand the cabin. The drover, the sailor, buffets it all day, andhis 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 ofthe other party; but it is a bad counsellor. Every man is actually weak, and apparently strong. To himself, he seemsweak; to others, formidable. You are afraid of Grim; butGrim also is afraid of you. You are solicitous of the good- will ofthe meanest person, uneasy at his ill-will. But the sturdiestoffender of your peace and of the neighbourhood, if you rip up his claims, is as thin and timid as any; and the peace of societyis often kept, because, as children say, one is afraid, and the other dares not. Far off, men swell, bully, and threaten:bring them hand to hand, and they are a feeble folk.It is a proverb, that " courtesy costs nothing;" but calculation might come to value love for its profit. Love is fabled tobe blind; but kindness is necessary to perception; love is nota hood, but an eye-water. If you meet a sectary, or a hostilepartisan, never recognise the dividing lines; but meet on whatcommon ground remains-if only that the sun shines, and the rain rains for both; the area will widen very fast, and ere youknow it the boundary mountains, on which the eye had fastened,have melted into air. If they set out to contend, Saint Paulwill lie, and Saint John will hate. What low, poor, paltry,hypocritical people an argument on religion will make of thepure and chosen souls! They will shuffle, and crow, crook, andhide, feign to confess here, only that they may brag and conquer there, and not a thought has enriched either party, andnot an emotion of bravery, modesty, or hope. So neithershould you put yourself in a false position with your contemporaries, by indulging a vein of hostility and bitterness.Though your views are in straight antagonism to theirs,assume an identity of sentiment, assume that you are sayingprecisely that which all think, and in the flow of wit and lovePRUDENCE. 101roll 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 thevoluntary ones, that you will never do yourself justice in dispute. The thought is not then taken hold of by the righthandle, does not show itself proportioned, and in its true bearings, but bears extorted, hoarse, and half witness . Butassume a consent, and it shall presently be granted, since,really, and underneath their external diversities, all men are of one heart and mind.Wisdom will never let us stand with any man or men on anunfriendly footing. We refuse sympathy and intimacy withpeople, as if we waited for some better sympathy and intimacy to come. But whence and when? To-morrow will be like today. Life wastes itself whilst we are preparing to live. Our friends and fellow- workers die off from us. Scarcely can wesay, we see new men, new women, approaching us. We are tooold to regard fashion, too old to expect patronage of any greateror more powerful. Let us suck the sweetness of those affectionsand consuetudes that grow near us. These old shoes are easyto the feet. Undoubtedly, we can easily pick faults in ourcompany, can easily whisper names prouder, and that ticklethe fancy more. Every man's imagination hath its friends;and life would be dearer with such companions. But, if youcannot have them on good mutual terms, you cannot have them.If not the Deity, but our ambition, hews and shapes the newrelations, their virtue escapes, as strawberries lose their flavourin garden beds.Thus truth, frankness, courage, love, humility, and all thevirtues, range themselves on the side of prudence, or the art of securing a present well-being. I do not knowif all matter willbe found to be made of one element, as oxygen or hydrogen, atlast, but the world of manners and actions is wrought of onestuff, and, begin where we will, we are pretty sure in a short space to be mumbling our ten commandments.102 ESSAY VIII.VIII.-HEROISM.Paradise is under the shadow of swords.Ruby wine is drunk by knaves,Sugar spends to fatten slaves,Rose and vine-leaf deck buffoons;Thunderclouds are Jove's festoons,Drooping oft in wreaths of dreadLightning-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.Mahomet.N the elder English dramatists, and mainly in the plays of IN Beaumont andFletcher, there is aconstant recognition ofgentility, as if a noble behaviour were as easily marked in thesociety of their age, as colour is in our American population.When any Rodrigo, Pedro, or Valerio, enters, though he be astranger, the duke or governor exclaims, This is a gentle- man, -and proffers civilities without end; but all the rest are slag and refuse. In harmony with this delight in personaladvantages, there is in their plays a certain heroic cast of character and dialogue, —as in Bonduca, Sophocles, the Mad Lover,the Double Marriage, -wherein the speaker is so earnest and cordial, and on such deep grounds of character, that the dialogue, on the slightest additional incident in the plot, risesnaturally into poetry. Among many texts, take the following.The Roman Martius has conquered Athens, -all but theinvincible spirits of Sophocles, the duke of Athens, and Dorigen, his wife. The beauty of the latter inflames Martius, andhe seeks to save her husband; but Sophocles will not ask hislife, although assured that a word will save him, and the execu- tion of both proceeds." Valerius. Bid thy wife farewell.Soph. No, I will take no leave. My Dorigen,Yonder, above, ' bout Ariadne's crown,My spirit shall hover for thee. Prithee, haste.Dor. Stay, Sophocles, with this tie up my sight;Let not soft nature so transformed be,And lose her gentler sexed humanity,To make me see my lord bleed . So, ' tis well;Never one object underneath the sun Will I behold before my Sophocles:Farewell; now teach the Romans how to die.HEROISM. 103Mar. 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 endAn old, stale, weary work, and to commence A newer and a better. "Tis to leaveDeceitful knaves for the societyOf gods and goodness. Thou thyself must part At last from all thy garlands, pleasures, triumphs,And prove thy fortitude what then ' twill do.Val. But art not grieved nor vexed to leave thy life thus?Soph. Why should I grieve or vex for being sent To them I ever loved best? Now I'll kneel,But with my back toward thee; ' tis the last duty This trunk can do the gods.Mar. Strike, strike, Valerius,Or Martius' heart will leap out at his mouth ,This is a man, a woman! Kiss thy lord,And live with all the freedom you were wont.O love! thou doubly hast afflicted me With virtue and with beauty. Treacherous heart,My hand shall cast thee quick into my urn,Ere thou transgress this knot of piety.Val. What ails my brother?Soph. Martius, O Martius,Thou now hast found a way to conquer me.Dor. O star of Rome! what gratitude can speak Fit words to follow such a deed as this?Mar. This admirable duke, Valerius,With his disdain of fortune and of death,Captived himself, has captivated me,And though my arm hath ta'en his body here,His soul hath subjugated Martius' soul .By Romulus, he is all soul, I think;He hath no flesh, and spirit cannot be gyved;Then we have vanquished nothing; he is free,And Martius walks now in captivity."I do not readily remember any poem, play, sermon, novel, or oration, that our press vents in the last few years, which goes to the same tune. We have a great many flutes and flageolets,but not often the sound of any fife. Yet, Wordsworth's Lao- damia, and the ode of " Dion," and some sonnets, have a cer- tain noble music; and Scott will sometimes draw a stroke likethe 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 Harleian Miscellanies, there is an account of the battle of Lutzen, which104 ESSAY VIII.deserves to be read. And Simon Ockley's History of theSaracens recounts the prodigies of individual valour with admiration, all the more evident on the part of the narrator, thathe seems to think that his place in Christian Oxford requires of him some proper protestations of abhorrence. But, if weexplore the literature of Heroism, we shall quickly come to Plutarch, who is its Doctor and historian. To him we owe theBrasidas, the Dion, the Epaminondas, the Scipio of old, and Imust think we are more deeply indebted to him than to all the ancient writers . Each of his " Lives " is a refutation to thedespondency and cowardice of our religious and political theo- rists. Awild courage, a Stoicism not of the schools, but of theblood, shines in every anecdote, and has given that book its immense fanie.We need books of this tart cathartic virtue, more than booksof political science, or of private economy. Life is a festivalonly to the wise. Seen from the nook and chimney- side of prudence, it wears a ragged and dangerous front. The violations of the laws of nature by our predecessors and our contemporaries are punished in us also. The disease and deformity around us certify the infraction of natural, intellectual, andmoral laws, and often violation on violation to breed such com- pound misery. A lock-jaw that bends a man's head back to hisheels, 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 hadits inlet by human crime, must have its outlet by human suffering. Unhappily, no man exists who has not in his own person become, to some amount, a stockholder in the sin, andso made himself 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 ofwar, and that the commonwealth and his own well- being requirethat he should not go dancing in the weeds of peace; but warned,self- collected, and neither defying nor dreading the thunder,let him take both reputation and life in his hand, and, withperfect urbanity, dare the gibbet and the mob by the absolute truth of his speech, and the rectitude of his behaviour.Towards all this external evil, the man within the breastassumes a warlike attitude, and affirms his ability to copesingle-handed with the infinite army of enemies. To thismilitary attitude of the soul we give the name of Heroism. Itsrudest form is the contempt for safety and ease, which makes the attractiveness of war. It is a self- trust which slights therestraints of prudence, in the plenitude of its energy and powerto repair the harms it may suffer. The hero is a mind of suchbalance that no disturbances can shake his will, but pleasantly,HEROISM. 105and, as it were, merrily, he advances to his own music, alike infrightful alarms and in the tipsy mirth of universal dissolute- ness. There is somewhat not philosophical in heroism; thereis somewhat not holy in it; it seems not to know that othersouls are of one texture with it; it has pride; it is the extreme of individual nature. Nevertheless, we must profoundly revereit. There is somewhat in great actions, which does not allowus to go behind them. Heroism feels and never reasons, andtherefore is always right; and although a different breeding,different religion, and greater intellectual activity would havemodified or even reversed the particular action, yet for the herothat thing he does is the highest deed, and is not open to the censure of philosophers or divines. It is the avowal of theunschooled man, that he finds a quality in him that is negligentof expense, of health, of life, of danger, of hatred, of reproach,and knows that his will is higher and more excellent than allactual and all possible antagonists.Heroism works in contradiction to the voice of mankind, andin contradiction, for a time, to the voice of the great and good.Heroism is an obedience to a secret impulse of an individual's character. Now to no other man can its wisdom appear as itdoes to him, for every man must be supposed to see a littlefarther 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 toa sensual prosperity; for every heroic act measures itself by itscontempt of some external good. But it finds its own successat last, and then the prudent also extol.Self-trust is the essence of heroism. It is the state of thesoul at war, and its ultimate objects are the last defiance offalsehood and wrong, and the power to bear all that can beinflicted by evil agents. It speaks the truth, and it is just,generous, hospitable, temperate, scornful of petty calculations,and scornful of being scorned. It persists; it is of an un- daunted boldness, and of a fortitude not to be wearied out. Itsjest is the littleness of common life. That false prudence which dotes on health and wealth is the butt and merriment ofheroism. Heroism, like Plotinus, is almost ashamed of itsbody. What shall it say, then, to the sugarplums and cat'scradles, to the toilet, compliments, quarrels, cards, and custard,which rack the wit of all society? What joys has kind natureprovided for us dear creatures! There seems to be no interval between greatness and meanness. When the spirit is notmaster of the world, then it is its dupe. Yet the little mantakes the great hoax so innocently, works in it so headlong andbelieving, is born red, and dies grey, arranging his toilet,106 ESSAY VIII.66attending on his own health, laying traps for sweet food and strong wine, setting his heart on a horse or a rifle, made happy with a little gossip or a little praise, that the great soul cannot choose but laugh at such earnest nonsense. 'Indeed, these humble considerations make me out of love with greatness.What a disgrace is it to me to take note how many pairs of silk stockings thou hast, namely, these and those that were the peach- 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 theinconvenience of receiving strangers at their fireside, reckonnarrowly the loss of time and the unusual display: the soul ofa 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, likea palace, the gates of which were open and fixed back to thewall 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 whatevernumber; the master has amply provided for the reception ofthe men and their animals, and is never happier than when theytarry for some time. Nothing of the kind have I seen in any other country." The magnanimous know very well that theywho give time, or money, or shelter, to the stranger-so it be done for love, and not for ostentation-do, as it were, put Godunder obligation to them, so perfect are the compensations of the universe. In some way the time they seem to lose isredeemed, and the pains they seem to take remunerate them- selves. These men fan the flame of human love, and raise thestandard of civil virtue among mankind. But hospitality mustbe for service, and not for show, or it pulls down the host.The brave soul rates itself too high to value itself by thesplendour of its table and draperies. It gives what it hath, andall it hath, but its own majesty can lend a better grace to ban- nocks 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 forits elegancy, not for its austerity. It seems not worth his whileto be solemn, and denounce with bitterness flesh-eating or winedrinking, the use of tobacco, or opium, or tea; or silk, or gold.Agreat man scarcely knows howhe dines, how he dresses; butwithout 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."66HEROISM. 107Better still is the temperance of King David, who poured out on the ground unto the Lord the water which three of hiswarriors had brought him to drink, at the peril of their lives.It is told of Brutus, that when he fell on his sword, after thebattle of Philippi, he quoted a line of Euripides, -" O virtue!I have followed thee through life, and I find thee at last but ashade." I doubt not the hero is slandered by this report. Theheroic soul does not sell its justice and its nobleness. It does not ask to dine nicely, and to sleep warm. The essence ofgreatness 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, isthe good-humour and hilarity they exhibit. It is a height towhich common duty can very well attain, to suffer and to darewith solemnity. But these rare souls set opinion, success, andlife, at so cheap a rate, that they will not soothe their enemiesbypetitions, or the showof sorrow, but wear their own habitual greatness. Scipio, charged with peculation, refuses to do himself so great a disgrace as to wait for justification, though he had the scroll of his accounts in his hands, but tears it to pieces before the tribunes. Socrates' condemnation of himself to bemaintained in all honour in the Prytaneum, during his life, andSir Thomas More's playfulness at the scaffold, are of the same strain. In Beaumont and Fletcher's Sea Voyage," Julettatells the stout captain and his company, -66"Jul. Why, slaves, ' tis in our power to hang ye.Master. Very likely,'Tis in our powers, then, to be hanged, and scorn ye. "These replies are sound and whole. Sport is the bloom and glow of a perfect health. The great will not condescend totake anything seriously; all must be as gay as the song of acanary, though it were the building of cities, or the eradicationof old and foolish churches and nations, which have cumberedthe earth long thousands of years. Simple hearts put all thehistory 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 assembledin vision, like little children frolicking together; though, tothe eyes of mankind at large, they wear a stately and solemn garb of works and influences.The interest these fine stories have for us, the power of aromance over the boy who grasps the forbidden book under hisbench 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,108 ESSAY VIII.it is that we are already domesticating the same sentiment.Let us find room for this great guest in our small houses. Thefirst step of worthiness will be to disabuse us of our superstitious associations with places and times, with number andsize. Why should these words, Athenian, Roman, Asia, and England, so tingle in the ear? Where the heart is, there themuses, there the gods sojourn, and not in any geography offame. Massachusetts, Connecticut River, and Boston Bay, youthink paltry places, and the ear loves names of foreign and classic topography. But here we are; and, if we will tarry a little,we may come to learn that here is best. See to it, only, thatthyself is here; —and art and nature, hope and fate, friends,angels, and the Supreme Being, shall not be absent from thechamber where thou sittest. Epaminondas, brave and affec- tionate, does not seem to us to need Olympus to die upon, nor the Syrian sunshine. He lies very well where he is. TheJerseys were handsome ground enough for Washington to tread, and London streets for the feet of Milton. A great manmakes his climate genial in the imagination of men, and its airthe beloved element of all delicate spirits. That country is thefairest, which is inhabited by the noblest minds. The pictures which fill the imagination in reading the actions of Pericles,Xenophon, Columbus, Bayard, Sidney, Hampden, teach us howneedlessly mean our life is, that we, by the depth of our living,should deck it with more than regal or national splendour, and act on principles that should interest man and nature in thelength of our days.We have seen or heard of many extraordinary young men,who never ripened, or whose performance in actual life was notextraordinary. When we see their air and mien, when we hearthem speak of society, of books, of religion, we admire theirsuperiority, they seem to throw contempt on our entire polityand social state; theirs is the tone of a youthful giant, who issent to work revolutions. But they enter an active profession,and the forming Colossus shrinks to the common size of man.The magic they used was the ideal tendencies, which alwaysmake the Actual ridiculous; but the tough world had itsrevenge the moment they put their horses of the sun to ploughin its furrow. They found no example and no companion, and their heart fainted. What then? The lesson they gave intheir first aspirations is yet true; and a better valour and apurer truth shall one day organize their belief. Or why shoulda woman liken herself to any historical woman, and think,because Sappho, or Sévigné, or De Staël, or the cloistered soulswho have had genius and cultivation, do not satisfy the imagination and the serene Themis, none can-certainly not she.Why not? She has a new and unattempted problem to solve,HEROISM. 109perchance that of the happiest nature that ever bloomed. Let the maiden, with erect soul, walk serenely on her way, acceptthe hint of each new experience, search in turn all the objects that solicit her eye, that she may learn the power and the charm of her new-born being, which is the kindling of a newdawn in the recesses of space. The fair girl, who repels interference by a decided and proud choice of influences, socareless of pleasing, so wilful and lofty, inspires every beholder with somewhat of her own nobleness. The silent heart en- courages her; O friend, never strike sail to a fear! Come intoport greatly, or sail with God the seas. Not in vain you live,for every passing eye is cheered and refined by the vision.The characteristic of heroism is its persistency. All menhave wandering impulses, fits, and starts of generosity. Butwhen you have chosen your part, abide by it, and do notweakly try to reconcile yourself with the world. The heroic cannot be the common, nor the common the heroic. Yet wehave the weakness to expect the sympathy of people in thoseactions whose excellence is that they outrun sympathy, andappeal to a tardy justice. If you would serve your brother,because it is fit for you to serve him, do not take back yourwords when you find that prudent people do not commend you.Adhere to your own act, and congratulate yourself if you havedone something strange and extravagant, and broken themonotony of a decorous age. It was a high counsel that Ionce heard given to a young person-" Always do what youare afraid to do." A simple, manly character need never makean apology, but should regard its past action with the calmnessof Phocion, when he admitted that the event of the battle washappy, yet did not regret his dissuasion from the battle.There is no weakness or exposure for which we cannot findconsolation in the thought-this is a part of my constitution,part of my relation and office to my fellow- creature. Has nature covenanted with me that I should never appear todisadvantage, never make a ridiculous figure? Let us be generous of our dignity, as well as of our money. Greatnessonce and for ever has done with opinion. We tell our charities, not because we wish to be praised for them, notbecause we think they have great merit, but for our justification. It is a capital blunder, as you discover, when another man recites his charities.To speak the truth, even with some austerity, to live withsome rigour of temperance, or some extremes of generosity,seems to be an asceticism which common good-nature wouldappoint to those who are at ease and in plenty, in sign thatthey feel a brotherhood with the great multitude of suffering men. And not only need we breathe and exercise the soul by110 ESSAY VIII.assuming the penalties of abstinence, of debt, of solitude, of unpopularity, but it behoves the wise man to look with a boldeye into those rarer dangers which sometimes invade men, andto familiarize himself with disgusting forms of disease, with sounds of execration, and the vision of violent death.Times of heroism are generally times of terror, but the daynever shines in which this element may not work. The circ*mstances of man, we say, are historically somewhat better inthis country, and at this hour, than perhaps ever before. More freedom exists for culture. It will not now run against an axeat the first step out of the beaten track of opinion. But whosois 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 braveLovejoy gave his breast to the bullets of a mob, for the rightsof 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 himselfin those courses he approves. The unremitting retention of simple and high sentiments in obscure duties is hardening the character to that temper which will work with honour, if needbe, in the tumult, or on the scaffold. Whatever outrages havehappened to men may befal a man again; and very easily in arepublic, if there appear any signs of a decay of religion.Coarse slander, fire, tar and feathers, and the gibbet, the youthmay freely bring home to his mind, and with what sweetness of temper he can, and inquire how fast he can fix his sense ofduty, braving such penalties, whenever it may please the nextnewspaper and a sufficient number of his neighbours to pronounce his opinions incendiary.It may calm the apprehension of calamity in the most susceptible heart to see how quick a bound nature has set to the utmost infliction of malice. We rapidly approach a brinkover 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 hourwhen we are deaf to the higher voices, who does not envy thosewho have seen safely to an end their manful endeavour? Whothat sees the meanness of our politics, but inly congratulatesWashington that he is long already wrapped in his shroud, andfor ever safe; that he was laid sweet in his grave, the hope ofhumanity not yet subjugated in him? Who does not sometimes envy the good and brave, who are no more to suffer fromTHE OVER- SOUL. 111the tumults of the natural world, and await with curiouscomplacency the speedy term of his own conversation with finite nature? And yet the love that will be annihilated soonerthan treacherous, has already made death impossible, and affirms itself no mortal, but a native of the deeps of absoluteand inextinguishable being.IX. THE OVER-SOUL."But souls that of his own good life partake,He loves as his own self; dear as his eyeThey 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 cuckooCrowds every egg out ofthe nest,Quick or dead, except its own;A spell is laid on sod and stone,Night and Day ' ve been tampered with,Every quality and pith Surcharged and sultry with a power That works its will on age and hour.HERE is a difference between one and another hour of life,THin their authority and subsequent effect. Our faith comesin moments; our vice is habitual. Yet there is a depth in those brief moments which constrains us to ascribe morereality to them than to all other experiences. For this reason,the argument which is always forthcoming to silence thosewho conceive extraordinary hopes of man, namely, the appealto experience, is for ever invalid and vain. We give up thepast to the objector, and yet we hope. He must explain thishope. We grant that human life is mean; but howdid 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 ofwant and ignorance, but the fine inuendo by which the soulmakes its enormous claim? Why do men feel that the naturalhistory of man has never been written, but he is always leavingbehind what you have said of him, and it becomes old, andbooks of metaphysics worthless? The philosophy of six thousand years has not searched the chambers and magazines of thesoul. In its experiments there has always remained, in the last112 ESSAY IX.analysis, a residuum it could not resolve. Man is a streamwhose source is hidden. Our being is descending into us from we know not whence. The most exact calculator has noprescience that somewhat incalculable may not balk the very next moment. I am constrained every moment to acknowledge a higher origin for events than the will I call mine.As with events, so is it with thoughts. When I watch thatflowing river, which, out of regions I see not, pours for aseason its streams into me, I see that I am a pensioner; not acause, but a surprised spectator of this ethereal water; that Idesire 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 ofthe atmosphere; that Unity, that Over- soul, within which every man's particular being is contained and made one withall other; that common heart, of which all sincere conversation is the worship, to which all right action is submission; thatoverpowering reality which confutes our tricks and talents,and constrains every one to pass for what he is, and to speak from his character, and not from his tongue, and which ever- more tends to pass into our thought and hand, and become wisdom, and virtue, and power, and beauty. We live insuccession, in division, in parts, in particles. Meantime withinman is the soul of the whole; the wise silence; the universalbeauty, to which every part and particle is equally related; the eternal ONE. And this deep power in which we exist, and whose beatitude is all accessible to us, is not only self- sufficingand perfect in every hour, but the act of seeing and the thing seen, the seer and the spectacle, the subject and the object, are one. We see the world piece by piece, as the sun, the moon,the animal, the tree; but the whole, of which these are theshining parts, is the soul. Only by the vision of that Wisdomcan the horoscope of the ages be read, and by falling back onour better thoughts, by yielding to the spirit of prophecy whichis innate in every man, we can know what it saith. Every man's words, who speaks from that life, must sound vain to those who do not dwell in the same thought on their own part.I dare not speak for it. My words do not carry its augustsense; they fall short and cold. Only itself can inspire whomit will, and behold! their speech shall be lyrical, and sweet, anduniversal as the rising of the wind. Yet I desire, even byprofane words, if I may not use sacred, to indicate the heavenof this deity, and to report what hints I have collected of thetranscendent simplicity and energy of the Highest Law.If we consider what happens in conversation, in reveries, inTHE OVER-SOUL. 113remorse, in times of passion, in surprises, in the instructionsof dreams, wherein often we see ourselves in masquerade-thedroll disguises only magnifying and enhancing a real element,and forcing it on our distinct notice-we shall catch manyhints that will broaden and lighten into knowledge of thesecret of nature. All goes to show that the soul in man is notan organ, but animates and exercises all the organs; is not afunction, like the power of memory, of calculation, of comparison, but uses these as hands and feet; is not a faculty, buta light; is not the intellect or the will, but the master of theintellect and the will; is the background of our being, inwhich they lie an immensity not possessed and that cannotbe possessed. From within or from behind, a light shinesthrough us upon things, and makes us aware that we arenothing, but the light is all. A man is the façade of a temple wherein all wisdom and all good abide. What we commonly call man, the eating, drinking, planting, counting man, doesnot, as we know him, represent himself, but misrepresents himself. Him we do not respect, but the soul, whose organ heis, would he let it appear through his action, would make ourknees bend. When it breathes through his intellect, it isgenius; when it breathes through his will, it is virtue; whenit flows through his affection, it is love. And the blindness ofthe intellect begins, when it would be something of itself. Theweakness of the will begins, when the individual would besomething of himself. All reform aims, in some one particular,to let the soul have its way through us; in other words, toengage us to obey.66Of this pure nature every man is at some time sensible.Language cannot paint it with his colours. It is too subtle.It is undefinable, unmeasurable, but we know that it pervades and contains us. We know that all spiritual being is in man.Awise old proverb says, God comes to see us without bell; "that is, as there is no screen or ceiling between our heads and the infinite heavens, so is there no bar or wall in the soulwhere man, the effect, ceases, and God, the cause, begins. Thewalls are taken away. We lie open on one side to the deeps ofspiritual nature, to the attributes of God. Justice we see andknow, Love, Freedom, Power. These natures no man ever gotabove, but they tower over us, and most in the moment when our interests tempt us to wound them.The sovereignty of this nature whereof we speak is made known by its independency of those limitations which circ*mscribe us on every hand. The soul circ*mscribes all things.As I have said, it contradicts all experience. In like mannerit abolishes time and space. The influence of the senses has,in most men, overpowered the mind to that degree, that the VOL. I. I114 ESSAY IX.walls of time and space have come to look real and insurmountable; and to speak with levity of these limits is, in theworld, the sign of insanity. Yet time and space are butinverse 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 andage than that which is measured from the year of our naturalbirth. Some thoughts always find us young, and keep us so.Such a thought is the love of the universal and eternal beauty.Every man parts from that contemplation with the feeling thatit rather belongs to ages than to mortal life. The least activity of the intellectual powers redeems us in a degree from theconditions of time. In sickness, in languor, give us a strainof poetry, or a profound sentence, and we are refreshed; orproduce a volume of Plato, or Shakespeare, or remind us oftheir names, and instantly we come into a feeling of longevity.See how the deep, divine thought reduces centuries, andmillenniums, and makes itself present through all ages. Is theteaching of Christ less effective now than it was when first his mouth was opened? The emphasis of facts and persons in mythought has nothing to do with time. And so, always, the soul's scale is one; the scale of the senses and the understanding is another. Before the revelations of the soul, Time,Space, and Nature shrink away. In common speech, we refer all things to time, as we habitually refer the immensely sundered stars to one concave sphere. And so we say that theJudgment is distant or near, that the Millennium approaches,that a day of certain political, moral, social reforms is at hand,and the like, when we mean, that, in the nature of things, oneof the facts we contemplate is external and fugitive, and the other is permanent and connate with the soul. The things wenow esteem fixed shall, one by one, detach themselves, like ripefruit, from our experience, and fall. The wind shall blowthem none knows whither. The landscape, the figures, Boston,London, are facts as fugitive as any institution past, or anywhiff of mist or smoke, and so is society, and so is the world.The soul looketh steadily forwards, creating a world before her,leaving worlds behind her. She has no dates, nor rites, norpersons, nor specialties, nor men. The soul knows only the soul,the web of events is the flowing robe in which she is clothed.After its own law and not by arithmetic is the rate of itsprogress to be computed. The soul's advances are not made bygradation, such as can be represented by motion in a straight line; but rather by ascension of state, such as can be repre-THE OVER- SOUL. 115sented by metamorphosis-from the egg to the worm, from theworm to the fly. The growths of genius are of a certain total character, that does not advance the elect individual first overJohn, then Adam, then Richard, and give to each the pain ofdiscovered inferiority, but by every throe of growth the manexpands there where he works, passing, at each pulsation,classes, populations, of men. With each divine impulse themind rends the thin rinds of the visible and finite, and comesout into eternity, and inspires and expires its air. It converseswith truths that have always been spoken in the world, andbecomes 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 simplerise as by specific levity, not into a particular virtue, but intothe region of all the virtues. They are in the spirit whichcontains them all. The soul requires purity, but purity is notit; requires justice, butjustice is not that; requires beneficence,but is somewhat better; so that there is a kind of descent andaccommodation felt when we leave speaking of moral nature, tourge a virtue which it enjoins. To the well-born child, all thevirtues are natural, and not painfully acquired. Speak to hisheart, and the man becomes suddenly virtuous.Within the same sentiment is the germ of intellectualgrowth, which obeys the same law. Those who are capable of humility, of justice, of love, of aspiration, stand already on aplatform that commands the sciences and arts, speech and poetry, action and grace. For whoso dwells in this moralbeatitude already anticipates those special powers which menprize so highly. The lover has no talent, no skill, which passesfor quite nothing with his enamoured maiden, however little she may possess of related faculty; and the heart whichabandons itself to the Supreme Mind finds itself related to allits works, and will travel a royal road to particular knowledgesand powers. In ascending to this primary and aboriginal sentiment, we have come from our remote station on thecircumference instantaneously to the centre of the world,where, as in the closet of God, we see causes, and anticipate the universe, which is but a slow effect.One mode of the divine teaching is the incarnation of the spirit in a form-in forms, like my own. I live in society;with persons who answer to thoughts in myown mind, or express a certain obedience to the great instincts to which Ilive. I see its presence to them. I am certified of a common nature; and these other souls, these separated selves, draw meas nothing else can. They stir in me the newemotions we callpassion; of love, hatred, fear, admiration, pity; thence comesconversation, competition, persuasion, cities, and war. Persons116 ESSAY IX.are supplementary to the primary teaching of the soul. Inyouth we are mad for persons. Childhood and youth see allthe world in them. But the larger experience of man discoversthe identical nature appearing through them all. Personsthemselves acquaint us withthe impersonal. In all conversationbetween two persons, tacit reference is made, as to a third party, to a common nature. That third party or commonnature is not social; it is impersonal; is God. And so ingroups where debate is earnest, and especially on high questions,the company become aware that the thought rises to an equallevel in all bosoms, that all have a spiritual property in what was said, as well as the sayer. They all become wiser thanthey were. It arches over them like a temple, this unity ofthought, in which every heart beats with nobler sense of powerand duty, and thinks and acts with unusual solemnity. Allare conscious of attaining to a higher self-possession. Itshines for all. There is a certain wisdom of humanity which is common to the greatest men with the lowest, and which ourordinary education often labours to silence and obstruct. Themind is one, and the best minds, who love truth for its ownsake, think much less of property in truth. They accept itthankfully everywhere, and do not label or stamp it with anyman's name, for it is theirs long beforehand, and from eternity.The learned and the studious of thought have no monopoly ofwisdom. Their violence of direction in some degree disqualifies them to think truly. We owe many valuable observations topeople who are not very acute or profound, and who say thething without effort, which we want and have long been hunting in vain. The action of the soul is oftener in thatwhich is felt and left unsaid, than in that which is said in anyconversation. It broods over every society, and they uncon- sciously seek for it in each other. We know better than wedo. We do not yet possess ourselves, and we know at the same time that we are much more. I feel the same truth how oftenin my trivial conversation with my neighbours, that somewhathigher in each of us overlooks this by-play, and Jove nods to Jove from behind each of us.Men descend to meet. In their habitual and mean serviceto the world, for which they forsake their native nobleness,they resemble those Arabian sheiks, who dwell in mean houses,and affect an external poverty, to escape the rapacity of the Pacha, and reserve all their display of wealth for their interior and guarded retirements.As it is present in all persons, so it is in every period of life.It is adult already in the infant man. In my dealing withmy child, my Latin and Greek, my accomplishments and my money stead me nothing; but as much soul as I have avails.THE OVER- SOUL. 117If I am wilful, he sets his will against mine, one for one, andleaves me, if I please, the degradation of beating him by mysuperiority of strength. But if I renounce mywill, and act forthe 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 knowtruth when we see it, let sceptic and scoffer say what theychoose. Foolish people ask you, when you have spoken what they do not wish to hear, " How do you know it is truth, andnot an error of your own?" We know truth when we see it,from opinion, as we know when we are awake that we areawake. It was a grand sentence of Emanuel Swedenborg,which would alone indicate the greatness of that man's perception-"It is no proof of a man's understanding to be ableto confirm whatever he pleases; but to be able to discern that what is true is true, and that what is false is false, this is themark and character of intelligence. " In the book I read, thegood thought returns to me, as every truth will, the image of the whole soul. To the bad thought which I find in it, thesame soul becomes a discerning, separating sword, and lops it away. We are wiser than we know. If we will not interferewith our thought, but will act entirely, or see how the thing stands in God, we know the particular thing, and every thing,and every man. For the Maker of all things and all personsstands behind us, and casts his dread omniscience through usover things.But beyond this recognition of its own in particular passages of the individual's experience, it also reveals truth. And here we should seek to reinforce ourselves by its very presence, and to speak with a worthier, loftier strain of that advent. For the soul's communication of truth is the highest event in nature, since it then does not give somewhat from itself, but it gives itself, or passes into and becomes that man whom it enlightens; or, in proportion to that truth he receives, it takes him to itself.We distinguish the announcements of the soul, its manifestations of its own nature, by the term Revelation. These arealways attended by the emotion of the sublime. For this communication is an influx of the Divine mind into our mind.It is an ebb of the individual rivulet before the flowing surgesof the sea of life. Every distinct apprehension of this centralcommandment agitates men with awe and delight. A thrill passes through all men at the reception of new truth, or at theperformance of a great action, which comes out of the heart ofnature. In these communications, the power to see is notseparated from the will to do, but the insight proceeds fromobedience, and the obedience proceeds from ajoyful perception.118 ESSAY IX.Every moment when the individual feels himself invaded by itis memorable. Bythe necessity of our constitution, a certain enthusiasm attends the individual's consciousness of that divinepresence. The character and duration of this enthusiasmvaries with the state of the individual, from an ecstacy and trance and prophetic inspiration-which is its rarer appearance-to the faintest glow of virtuous emotion, in which form it warms, like our household fires, all the families and associations of men, and makes society possible. A certain tendencyto insanity has always attended the opening of the religious sense in men, as if they had been "blasted with excess oflight." The trances of Socrates, the " union " of Plotinus, thevision of Porphyry, the conversion of Paul, the aurora of Behmen, the convulsions of George Fox and his Quakers, theillumination of Swedenborg, are of this kind. What was in the case of these remarkable persons a ravishment has, in innumerable instances in common life, been exhibited in lessstriking manner. Everywhere the history of religion betrays a tendency to enthusiasm. The rapture of the Moravian andQuietist; the opening of the internal sense of the Word, in the language of the New Jerusalem Church; the revival of theCalvinistic churches; the experiences of the Methodists, arevarying forms of that shudder of awe and delight with which the individual soul always mingles with the universal soul.The nature of these revelations is the same; they are perceptions of the absolute law. They are solutions of the soul'sown questions. They do not answer the questions which the understanding asks. The soul answers never by words, but by the thing itself that is inquired after.Revelation is the disclosure of the soul. The popular notion of a revelation is, that it is a telling of fortunes. In past oracles of the soul, the understanding seeks to find answers tosensual questions, and undertakes to tell from God how long men shall exist, what their hands shall do, and who shall betheir company, adding names, and dates, and places. But wemust 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 describethem to you, and to-morrow you arrive there, and know themby inhabiting them. Men ask concerning the immortality ofthe soul, the employments of heaven, the state of the sinner,and so forth. They even dream that Jesus has left replies toprecisely these interrogatories. Never a moment did thatsublime spirit speak in their patois. To truth, justice, love, the attributes of the soul, the idea of immutableness is essentiallyassociated. Jesus, living in these moral sentiments, heedlessTHE OVER- SOUL. 119of sensual fortunes, heeding only the manifestations of these,never made the separation of the idea of duration from theessence of these attributes, nor uttered a syllable concerning the duration of the soul. It was left to his disciples to severduration from the moral elements, and to teach the immortalityof the soul as a doctrine, and maintain it by evidences. The moment the doctrine of the immortality is separately taught,man is already fallen. In the flowing of love, in the adoration:of humility, there is no question of 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 shedabroad cannot wander from the present, which is infinite, to afuture which would be finite.These questions which we lust to ask about the future are aconfession of sin. God has no answer for them. No answerin words can reply to a question of things. It is not in anarbitrary “ decree of God," but in the nature of man, that a veil shuts down on the facts of to- morrow; for the soul will nothave us read any other cipher than that of cause and effect.By this veil, which curtains events, it instructs the children ofmen to live in to-day. The only mode of obtaining an answerto 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 theadvancing soul has built and forged for itself a new condition,and the question and the answer are one.Bythe same fire, vital, consecrating, celestial, which burns until it shall dissolve all things into the waves and surges of an ocean of light, we see and know each other, and what spirit each is of. Who can tell the grounds of his knowledge of the character of the several individuals in his circle of friends?No man. Yet their acts and words do not disappoint him. In that man, though he knew no ill of him, he put no trust. In that other, though they had seldom met, authentic signs had yet passed, to signify that he might be trusted as one who hadan interest in his own character. We know each other very well, -which of us has been just to himself, and whether that which we teach or behold is only an aspiration, or is our honest effort also.We are all discerners of spirits. That diagnosis lies aloft in our life or unconscious power. The intercourse of society, -its trade, its religion, its friendships, its quarrels, —is one wide,judicial investigation of character. In full court, or in smallcommittee, or confronted face to face, accuser and accused, menoffer themselves to be judged. Against their will they exhibit those decisive trifles by which character is read. But whojudges? and what? Not our understanding. We do not read120 ESSAY IX.them by learning or craft. No; the wisdom of the wise manconsists herein, that he does not judge them; he lets themjudge themselves, and merely reads and records their own verdict.By virtue of this inevitable nature, private will is overpowered, and, maugre our efforts or our imperfections, your genius will speak from you, and mine from me. That whichwe are, we shall teach, not voluntarily, but involuntarily.Thoughts come into our minds by avenues which we never leftopen, and thoughts go out of our minds through avenues whichwe never voluntarily opened. Character teaches over our head.The infallible index of true progress is found in the tone theman takes. Neither his age, nor his breeding, nor company,nor books, nor actions, nor talents, nor all together, can hinderhim from being deferential to a higher spirit than his own.If he have not found his home in God, his manners, his formsof speech, the turn of his sentences, the build, shall I say, ofall his opinions, will involuntarily confess it, let him brave itout how it will. If he have found his centre, the Deity willshine through him, through all the disguises of ignorance, of ungenial temperament, of unfavourable circ*mstance. Thetone of seeking is one, and the tone of having is another.The great distinction between teachers sacred or literary,—between poets like Herbert, and poets like Pope, -betweenphilosophers like Spinoza, Kant, and Coleridge, and philosophers like Locke, Paley, Mackintosh, and Stewart, -betweenmen of the world, who are reckoned accomplished talkers, andhere and there a fervent mystic, prophesying, half insane under the infinitude of his thought, -is, that one class speak fromwithin, or from experience, as parties and possessors of the fact;and the other class, from without, as spectators merely, or perhaps as acquainted with the fact on the evidence of third persons. It is of no use to preach to me from without. I cando 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 menstand continually in the expectation of the appearance of such ateacher. But if a man do not speak from within the veil, wherethe word is one with that it tells of, let him lowly confess it.The same Omniscience flows into the intellect, and makeswhat we call genius. Much of the wisdom of the world is not wisdom, and the most illuminated class of men are no doubtsuperior to literary fame, and are not writers. Among the multitude of scholars and authors, we feel no hallowing presence; we are sensible of a knack and skill rather than ofinspiration; they have a light, and know not whence it comes,and call it their own; their talent is some exaggerated faculty,some overgrown member, so that their strength is a disease.THE OVER- SOUL. 12iIn these instances the intellectual gifts do not make the impression of virtue, but almost of vice; and we feel that a man'stalents stand in the way of his advancement in truth. Butgenius is religious. It is a larger imbibing of the common heart. It is not anomalous, but more like, and not less like other men. There is, in all great poets, a wisdom of humanitywhich is superior to any talents they exercise. The author, thewit, the partisan, the fine gentleman, does not take place of theman. Humanity shines in Homer, in Chaucer, in Spenser, inShakespeare, in Milton. They are content with truth. Theyuse the positive degree. They seem frigid and phlegmatic tothose who have been spiced with the frantic passion and violentcolouring of inferior, but popular writers. For they are poetsbythe free course which they allow to the informing soul, whichthrough their eyes beholds again, and blesses the things whichit hath made. The soul is superior to its knowledge; wiserthan any of its works. The great poet makes us feel our own wealth, and then we think less of his compositions. His bestcommunication to our mind is to teach us to despise all he hasdone. Shakespeare carries us to such a lofty strain of intelligentactivity, as to suggest a wealth which beggars his own; and wethen feel that the splendid works which he has created, andwhich in other hours we extol as a sort of self- existent poetry,take no stronger hold of real nature than the shadow of a passing traveller on the rock. The inspiration which uttered itself in Hamlet and Lear could utter things as good from day to day,for ever. Why, then, should I make account of Hamlet andLear, as if we had not the soul from which they fell as syllables from the tongue?This energy does not descend into individual life on any othercondition than entire possession. It comes to the lowly and simple; it comes to whomsoever will put off what is foreign andproud; it comes as insight; it comes as serenity and grandeur.When we see those whom it inhabits, we are apprised of newdegrees of greatness. From that inspiration the man comes back with a changed tone. He does not talk with men with aneye to their opinion. He tries them. It requires of us to be plain and true. The vain traveller attempts to embellish hislife by quoting my lord, and the prince, and the countess, who thus said or did to him. The ambitious vulgar show you theirspoons, and brooches, and rings, and preserve their cards andcompliments. The more cultivated, in their account of theirown experience, cull out the pleasing, poetic circ*mstance, —the visit to Rome, the man of genius they saw, the brilliant friend they know; still further on, perhaps, the gorgeous landscape, the mountain lights, the mountain thoughts, they enjoyedyesterday, and so seek to throw a romantic colour over their122 ESSAY IX.life. But the soul that ascends to worship the great God isplain and true; has no rose- colour, no fine friends, no chivalry,no adventures; does not want admiration; dwells in the hourthat now is, in the earnest experience of the common day, -by reason of the present moment and the mere trifle having become porous to thought, and bibulous of the sea of light.Converse with a mind that is grandly simple, and literaturelooks like word- catching. The simplest utterances are worthiest to be written, yet are they so cheap, and so things ofcourse, that, in the infinite riches of the soul, it is like gatheringa few pebbles off the ground, or bottling a little air in a phial,when the whole earth and the whole atmosphere are ours.Nothing can pass there, or make you one of the circle, but thecasting aside your trappings, and dealing man to man in nakedtruth, plain confession, and omniscient affirmation.Souls such as these treat you as gods would; walk as gods inthe earth, accepting without any admiration your wit, your bounty, your virtue even, say rather your act of duty, for yourvirtue they own as their proper blood, royal as themselves, andoverroyal, and the father of the gods. But what rebuke theirplain fraternal bearing casts on the mutual flattery with which authors solace each other and wound themselves! These flatternot. I do not wonder that these men go to see Cromwell, and Christina, and Charles the Second, and James the First, andthe Grand Turk. For they are, in their own elevation, the fellows of kings, and must feel the servile tone of conversation in the world. They must always be a godsend to princes, forthey confront them, a king to a king, without ducking or con- cession, and give a high nature the refreshment and satisfactionof resistance, of plain humanity, of even companionship, and of new ideas. They leave them wiser and superior men. Soulslike these make us feel that sincerity is more excellent thanflattery. Deal so plainly with man and woman, as to constrain the utmost sincerity, and destroy all hope of trifling with you.It is the highest compliment you can pay. Their " highestpraising," 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 thesoul. The simplest person, who in his integrity worships God,becomes God; yet for ever and ever the influx of this better and universal self is new and unsearchable. It inspires aweand astonishment. Howdear, how soothing to man, arises the idea of God, peopling the lonely place, effacing the scars of our mistakes anddisappointments! When we have broken our god of tradition, and ceased from our god of rhetoric, then may God fire the heart with his presence. It is the doubling of the heart itself, nay, the infinite enlargement of the heart with aTHE OVER- SOUL. 123power of growth to a new infinity on every side. It inspires in man an infallible trust. He has not the conviction, but thesight, that the best is the true, and may in that thought easily dismiss all particular uncertainties and fears, and adjourn tothe sure revelation of time, the solution of his private riddles.He is sure that his welfare is dear to the heart of being. In the presence of law to his mind, he is overflowed with a relianceso universal, that it sweeps away all cherished hopes and the most stable projects of mortal condition in its flood. Hebelieves that he cannot escape from his good. The things that are really for thee gravitate to thee. You are running to seekyour friend. Let your feet run, but your mind need not. Ifyou do not find him, will you not acquiesce that it is best you should not find him? for there is a power, which, as it is in youis in him also, and could therefore very well bring you togetherif it were for the best. You are preparing with eagerness togo and render a service to which your talent and your taste invite you, the love of men and the hope of fame. Has it not occurred to you, that you have no right to go, unless you areequally willing to be prevented from going? O, believe, as thou livest, that every sound that is spoken over the roundworld, which thou oughtest to hear, will vibrate on thine ear!Every proverb, every book, every byword that belongs to theefor aid or comfort, shall surely come home through open orwinding passages. Every friend whom not thy fantastic will,but the great and tender heart in thee craveth , shall lock thee in his embrace. And this, because the heart in thee is the heartof all; not a valve, not a wall, not an intersection is there any- where in nature, but one blood rolls uninterruptedly an endlesscirculation through all men, as the water of the globe is all one sea, and, truly seen, its tide is one.Let man, then, learn the revelation of all nature and allthought to his heart; this, namely; that the Highest dwells with him; that the sources of nature are in his own mind, ifthe sentiment of duty is there. But if he would know whatthe great God speaketh, he must " go into his closet and shut the door," as Jesus said. God will not make himself manifestto cowards. He must greatly listen to himself, withdrawing himself from all the accents of other men's devotion. Eventheir prayers are hurtful to him, until he have made his own.Our religion vulgarly stands on numbers of believers. Whenever the appeal is made no matter how indirectly-to numbers,proclamation is then and there made, that religion is not. Hethat finds God a sweet, enveloping thought to him nevercounts his company. When I sit in that presence, who shalldare to come in? When I rest in perfect humility, when Iburn with pure love, what can Calvin or Swedenborg say?124 ESSAY IX.It makes no difference whether the appeal is to numbers or to one. The faith that stands on authority is not faith . Thereliance on authority measures the decline of religion, the withdrawal of the soul. The position men have given to Jesus, nowfor many centuries of history, is a position of authority. It characterizes themselves. It cannot alter the eternal facts.Great is the soul, and plain. It is no flatterer, it is no follower;it never appeals from itself. It believes in itself. Before the immense possibilities of man, all mere experience, all pastbiography, however spotless and sainted, shrinks away. Beforethat heaven which our presentiments foreshow us, we cannoteasily praise any form of life we have seen or read of. We notonly affirm that we have few great men, but, absolutely speaking,that we have none; that we have no history, no record of any character or mode of living, that entirely contents us. Thesaints and demigods whom history worships we are constrainedto accept with a grain of allowance. Though in our lonely hours we draw a new strength out of their memory, yet, pressedon our attention, as they are by the thoughtless and customary,they fatigue and invade. The soul gives itself, alone, original,and pure, to the Lonely, Original, and Pure, who, on that condition, gladly inhabits , leads, and speaks through it . Then is it glad, young, and nimble. It is not wise, but it sees through allthings. It is not called religious, but it is innocent. It calls thelight its own, and feels that the grass grows and the stone fallsby a law inferior to, and dependent on, its nature. Behold, itsaith, I am born into the great, the universal mind. I, the imperfect, adore myown Perfect. I am somehowreceptive of thegreat soul, and thereby I do overlook the sun and the stars, and feel them to be the fair accidents and effects which change andpass. More and more the surges of everlasting nature enter intome, and I become public and human in my regards and actions.So come I to live in thoughts, and act with energies, which areimmortal. Thus revering the soul, and learning, as the ancient said, that " its beauty is immense, " man will come to see thatthe world is the perennial miracle which the soul worketh, andbe less astonished at particular wonders: he will learn thatthere is no profane history; that all history is sacred; that theuniverse is represented in an atom, in a moment of time. Hewill weave no longer a spotted life of shreds and patches, buthe will live with a divine unity. He will cease from what isbase and frivolous in his life, and be content with all places andwith any service he can render. He will calmly front the morrow in the negligency of that trust which carries God withit, and so hath already the whole future in the bottom of the heart.125X.-CIRCLES.Nature centres into balls,And her proud ephemerals,Fast to surface and outside,Scan the profile of the sphere;Knew they what that signified ,A new genesis were here.THE eye is the first circle; the horizon which it forms is the second; and throughout nature this primary figure is re- peated without end. It is the highest emblem in the cipher of the world. St. Augustine described the nature of God as a circle whose centre was everywhere, and its circumference nowhere.We are all our lifetime reading the copious sense of this firstof forms. One moral we have already deduced, in considering the circular or compensatory character of every human action.Another analogy we shall now trace; that every action admits of being outdone. Our life is an apprenticeship to the truth,that around every circle another can be drawn; that there is no end in nature, but every end is a beginning; that there isalways another dawn risen on mid-noon, and under every deep a lower deep opens.This fact, as far as it symbolizes the moral fact of theUnattainable, the flying Perfect, around which the hands of man can never meet, at once the inspirer and the condemnerof every success , may conveniently serve us to connect many illustrations of human power in every department.There are no fixtures in nature. The universe is fluid andvolatile. Permanence is but a word of degrees. Our globeseen by God is a transparent law, not a mass of facts . The lawdissolves the fact and holds it fluid. Our culture is the pre- dominance of an idea which draws after it this train of citiesand institutions. Let us rise into another idea: they will disappear. The Greek sculpture is all melted away, as if it had been statues of ice; here and there a solitary figure or fragment remaining, as we see flecks and scraps of snow left in colddells and mountain clefts, in June and July. For the genius that created it creates now somewhat else. The Greek letterslast a little longer, but are already passing under the same sentence, and tumbling into the inevitable pit which the creationof new thought opens for all that is old. The new continents are built out of the ruins of an old planet; the new races fedout of the decomposition of the foregoing. New arts destroythe old. See the investment of capital in aqueducts made use-126 ESSAY X.less by hydraulics; fortifications, by gunpowder; roads andcanals, by railways; sails, by steam; steam, by electricity.You admire this tower of granite, weathering the hurts of so many ages. Yet a little waving hand built this huge wall, and that which builds is better than that which is built. The handthat built can topple it down much faster. Better than the hand, and nimbler, was the invisible thought which wrought through it; and thus ever, behind the coarse effect, is a fine cause, which, being narrowly seen, is itself the effect of a finer cause. Everything looks permanent until its secret is known.A rich estate appears to women a firm and lasting fact; to amerchant, one easily created out of any materials, and easily lost. An orchard, good tillage, good grounds, seem a fixture like a gold mine, or a river, to a citizen; but to a large farmer,not much more fixed than the state of the crop. Nature looks provokingly stable and secular, but it has a cause like all the rest; and when once I comprehend that, will these fields stretch so immovably wide, these leaves hang so individually consider- able? Permanence is a word of degrees. Everything ismedial. Moons are no more bounds to spiritual power than bat- balls.The key to every man is his thought. Sturdy and defyingthough he look, he has a helm which he obeys, which is theidea after which all his facts are classified . He can only bereformed by showing him a newidea 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 whichthis generation of circles, wheel without wheel, will go, depends on the force or truth of the individual soul. For it is the inerteffort of each thought, having formed itself into a circular wave of circ*mstance, -as, for instance, an empire, rules of anart, a local usage, a religious rite, —-to heap itself on that ridge,and to solidify and hem in the life. But if the soul is quick and strong, it bursts over that boundary on all sides, andexpands another orbit on the great deep, which also runs upinto a high wave, with attempt again to stop and to bind. Butthe heart refuses to be imprisoned; in its first and narrowestpulses, 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. Everygeneral law only a particular fact of some more general lawpresently to disclose itself. There is no outside, no inclosingwall, no circumference to us. The man finishes his story, -howgood! how final! how it puts a new face on all things! He fills the sky. Lo! on the other side rises also a man, and draws a circle around the circle we had just pronounced theCIRCLES. 127outline of the sphere. Then already is our first speaker notman, but only a first speaker. His only redress is forthwith to draw a circle outside of his antagonist. And so men do bythemselves. The result of to- day, which haunts the mind andcannot be escaped, will presently be abridged into a word, andthe principle that seemed to explain nature will itself be included as one example of a bolder generalization. In thethought of to-morrow there is a power to upheave all thy creed,all the creeds, all the literatures, of the nations, and marshalthee to a heaven which no epic dream has yet depicted. Everyman is not so much a workman in the world, as he is asuggestion of that he should be. Men walk as prophecies of the next age.Step by step we scale this mysterious ladder: the steps areactions; the new prospect is power. Every several result isthreatened and judged by that which follows. Every one seems to be contradicted by the new; it is only limited by the new. The new statement is always hated by the old, and, tothose 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 presently, all its energy spent, it pales and dwindles before the revelation of the new hour.Fear not the new generalization. Does the fact look crassand material, threatening to degrade thy theory of spirit?Resist it not; it goes to refine and raise thy theory of matter just as much.There are no fixtures to men, if we appeal to consciousness.Every man supposes himself not to be fully understood; and ifthere is any truth in him, if he rests at last on the divine soul,I see not how it can be otherwise. The last chamber, the lastcloset, he must feel, was never opened; there is always a residuum unknown, unanalyzable. That is, every manbelieves that he has a greater possibility.Our moods do not believe in each other. To-day I am full ofthoughts, and can write what I please. I see no reason why Įshould not have the same thought, the same power of expression, to-morrow. What I write, whilst I write it, seems themost natural thing in the world; but yesterday I saw a drearyvacuity in this direction in which now I see so much; and amonth hence, I doubt not, I shall wonder who he was thatwrote so many continuous pages. Alas for this infirm faith,this will not strenuous, this vast ebb of avast flow! I am Godin nature; I am a weed by the wall.The continual effort to raise himself above himself, to worka pitch above his last height, betrays itself in a man's relations.We thirst for approbation, yet cannot forgive the approver.128 ESSAY X.The sweet of nature is love; yet, if I have a friend, I am tormented by my imperfections.The love of me accuses theother party. If he were high enough to slight me, then couldI love him, and rise by my affection to new heights. A man's growth is seen in the successive choirs of his friends. Forevery friend whom he loses for truth, he gains a better. Ithought, 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 limitsof persons called high and worthy. Rich, noble, and greatthey are by the liberality of our speech, but truth is sad. Oblessed Spirit, whom I forsake for these, they are not thou!Every personal consideration that we allow costs us heavenly state. We sell the thrones of angels for a short and turbulentpleasure.Howoften must we learn this lesson? Men cease to interestus when we find their limitations. The only sin is limitation.As soon as you once come up with a man's limitations, it is allover with him. Has he talents? has he enterprise? has heknowledge? it boots not. Infinitely alluring and attractivewas he to you yesterday, a great hope, a sea to swim in; now,you have found his shores, found it a pond, and you care not if you never see it again.Each new step we take in thought reconciles twenty seemingly discordant facts, as expressions of one law. Aristotleand Plato are reckoned the respective heads of two schools.A wise man will see that Aristotle Platonizes. By goingone step farther back in thought, discordant opinions are reconciled, by being seen to be two extremes of one principle,and we can never go so far back as to preclude a still higher vision.Beware when the great God lets loose a thinker on thisplanet. Then all things are at risk. It is as when a conflagration has broken out in a great city, and no man knows whatis safe, or where it will end. There is not a piece of science,but its flank may be turned to-morrow; there is not any literaryreputation, not the so-called eternal names of fame, that may not be revised and condemned. The very hopes of man, thethoughts of his heart, the religion of nations, the manners and morals of mankind, are all at the mercy of a newgeneralization.Generalization is always a new influx of the divinity into the mind. Hence the thrill that attends it.Valour consists in the power of self- recovery, so that a man cannot have his flank turned, cannot be out- generalled, but put him where you will, he stands, This can only be by his preferring truth to his past apprehension of truth; and his alert acceptance of it, from whatever quarter; the intrepid convictionCIRCLES. 129that his laws, his relations to society, his Christianity, his world, may at any time be superseded and decease.There are degrees in idealism. We learn first to play with itacademically, as the magnet was once a toy. Then we see inthe heyday of youth and poetry that it may be true, that it istrue in gleams and fragments. Then, its countenance waxes stern and grand, and we see that it must be true. It nowshows itself ethical and practical. We learn that God Is; thathe is in me; and that all things are shadows of him. Theidealism of Berkeley is only a crude statement of the idealismof Jesus, and that again is a crude statement of the fact, that all nature is the rapid efflux of goodness executing and organizing itself. Much more obviously is history and the state ofthe world at any one time directly dependent on the intellectual classification then existing in the minds of men. The thingswhich are dear to men at this hour are so on account of theideas which have emerged on their mental horizon, and whichcause the present order of things as a tree bears its apples. Anew degree of culture would instantly revolutionize the entiresystem of human pursuits.Conversation is a game of circles. In conversation we pluckup the termini which bound the common of silence on every side. The parties are not to be judged by the spirit they partake and even express under this Pentecost. To- morrow they will have receded from this high-water mark. To- morrow youshall find them stooping under the old pack- saddles. Yet letus enjoy the cloven flame whilst it glows on our walls. When each new speaker strikes a new light, emancipates us from theoppression of the last speaker, to oppress us with the greatness and exclusiveness of his own thought, then yields us to another redeemer, we seem to recover our rights, to become men. O,what truths profound and executable only in ages and orbs aresupposed in the announcement of every truth! In common hours, society sits cold and statuesque. We all stand waiting,empty,-knowing, possibly, that we can be full, surrounded bymighty symbols which are not symbols to us, but prose andtrivial toys. Then cometh the god, and converts the statues into fiery men, and by a flash of his eye burns up the veil whichshrouded all things, and the meaning of the very, furniture, of cup and saucer, of chair and clock and tester, is manifest. Thefacts which loomed so large in the fogs of yesterday, -property,climate, breeding, personal beauty, and the like, have strangely changed their proportions. All that we reckoned settled shakesand rattles; and literatures, cities, climates, religions, leavetheir foundations, and dance before our eyes. And yet hereagain see the swift circ*mspection! Good as is discourse,silence is better, and shames it. The length of the discourse indi- VOL. I. K130 ESSAY X.cates 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.Literature is a point outside of our hodiernal circle, through which a new one may be described. The use of literature is toafford us a platform whence we may command a view of our present life, a purchase by which we may move it. We fillourselves with ancient learning, install ourselves the best wecan in Greek, in Punic, in Roman houses, only that we may wiselier see French, English, and American houses and modes of living. In like manner, we see literature best from themidst of wild nature, or from the din of affairs, or from a highreligion. The field cannot be well seen from within the field.The astronomer must have his diameter of the earth's orbit asa base to find the parallax of any star.Therefore we value the poet. All the argument and all thewisdom is not in the encyclopædia, or the treatise on metaphysics, or the Body of Divinity, but in the sonnet or the play.In my daily work I incline to repeat my old steps, and do notbelieve in remedial force, in the power of change and reform.But some Petrarch or Ariosto, filled with the new wine of hisimagination, writes me an ode or a brisk romance, full of daring thought and action. He smites and arouses me withhis shrill tones, breaks up mywhole chain of habits, and I open my eye on my own possibilities. He claps wings to the sides of all the solid old lumber of the world, and I am capable oncemore of choosing a straight path in theory and practice.We have the same need to command a view of the religion of the world. We can never see Christianity from the catechism:-from the pastures, from a boat in the pond, fromamidst the songs of wood- birds, we possibly may. Cleansed bythe elemental light and wind, steeped in the sea of beautiful forms which the field offers us, we may chance to cast a rightglance back upon biography. Christianity is rightly dear to the best of mankind; yet was there never a young philosopherwhose breeding had fallen into the Christian church, by whom that brave text of Paul's was not specially prized:-" Thenshall also the Son be subject unto Him who put all thingsunder him, that God may be all in all. " Let the claims andvirtues of persons be never so great and welcome, the instinctof man presses eagerly onward to the impersonal and illimitable,and gladly arms itself against the dogmatism of bigots with this generous word out of the book itself.The natural world may be conceived of as a system of concentric circles, and we now and then detect in nature slightdislocations, which apprize us that this surface on which weCIRCLES. 131now stand is not fixed, but sliding. These manifold tenacious qualities, this chemistry and vegetation, these metals and ani- mals, which seem to stand there for their own sake, are meansand methods only, are words of God, and as fugitive as other words. Has the naturalist or chemist learned his craft, whohas explored the gravity of atoms and the elective affinities,who has not yet discerned the deeper law whereof this is only a partial or approximate statement, ' namely, that like draws to like; and that the goods which belong to you gravitate to you,and need not be pursued with pains and cost? Yet is that statement approximate also, and not final. Omnipresence is ahigher fact. Not through subtle, subterranean channels need friend and fact be drawn to their counterpart, but, rightly considered, these things proceed from the eternal generation of the soul. Cause and effect are two sides of one fact.The same law of eternal procession ranges all that we callthe virtues, and extinguishes each in the light of a better. Thegreat man will not be prudent in the popular sense; all hisprudence will be so much deduction from his grandeur. Butit behooves each to see, when he sacrifices prudence, to what god he devotes it; if to ease and pleasure, he had better beprudent still; if to a great trust, he can well spare his mule and panniers who has a winged chariot instead. Geoffreydraws on his boots to go through the woods, that his feet may be safer from the bite of snakes; Aaron never thinks of such aperil. In many years neither is harmed by such an accident.Yet it seems to me, that, with every precaution you take againstsuch an evil, you put yourself into the power of the evil. Isuppose that the highest prudence is the lowest prudence. Is this too sudden a rushing from the centre to the verge of ourorbit? Think how many times we shall fall back into pitiful calculations before we take up our rest in the great sentiment,or make the verge of to-day the new centre. Besides, your bravest sentiment is familiar to the humblest men. The poor66 and the low have their way of expressing the last facts of phi- losophy as well as you. Blessed be nothing," and "the worsethings 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 onebeholds the same objects from a higher point. One man thinksjustice consists in paying debts, and has no measure in his abhorrence of another who is very remiss in this duty, andmakes the creditor wait tediously. But that second man has his own way of looking at things; asks himself which debtmust I pay first, the debt to the rich, or the debt to the poor?the debt of money, or the debt of thought to mankind, of132 ESSAY X.genius to nature? For you, O broker! there is no other prin- ciple but arithmetic. For me, commerce is of trivial import;love, faith, truth of character, the aspiration of man, these are sacred; nor can I detach one duty, like you, from all otherduties, and concentrate my forces mechanically on the payment of moneys. Let me live onward; you shall find that, though slower, the progress of my character will liquidate all these debts without injustice to higher claims. If a man shoulddedicate himself to the payment of notes, would not this be injustice? Does he owe no debt but money? And are all claims on him to be postponed to a landlord's or a banker's?There is no virtue which is final; all are initial. The virtues of society are vices of the saint. The terror of reform is thediscovery that we must cast away our virtues, or what we have always esteemed such, into the same pit that has consumed our grosser vices." Forgive his crimes, forgive his virtues too,Those smaller faults, half converts to the right. "It is the highest power of divine moments that they abolishour contritions also. I accuse myself of sloth and unprofitableness day by day; but when these waves of God flow into me, Ino longer reckon lost time. I no longer poorly compute mypossible achievement by what remains to me of the month or the year; for these moments confer a sort of omnipresence andomnipotence which asks nothing of duration, but sees that the energy of the mind is commensurate with the work to be done,without time.And thus, O circular philosopher, I hear some reader exclaim,you have arrived at a fine Pyrrhonism, at an equivalence and indifferency of all actions, and would fain teach us that, ifweare true, forsooth, our crimes may be lively stones out of which we shall construct the temple of the true God!I am not careful to justify myself. I own I am gladdenedby seeing the predominance of the saccharine principlethroughout vegetable nature, and not less by beholding in morals that unrestrained inundation of the principle of goodinto every chink and hole that selfishness has left open, yea,into selfishness and sin itself; so that no evil is pure, nor hell itself without its extreme satisfactions. But lest I should mislead any when I have my own head and obey my whims,let me remind the reader that I am only an experimenter. Do not set the least value on what I do, or the least discredit onwhat I do not, as if I pretended to settle any thing as true or false. I unsettle all things. No facts are to me sacred; noneare profane; I simply experiment, an endless seeker, with no Past at my back.CIRCLES. 133Yet this incessant movement and progression which allthings partake could never become sensible to us but by contrast to some principle of fixture or stability in the soul.Whilst the eternal generation of circles proceeds, the eternalgenerator abides. That central life is somewhat superior tocreation, superior to knowledge and thought, and contains all its circles. For ever it labours to create a life and thought aslarge and excellent as itself; but in vain; for that which is made instructs how to make a better.Thus there is no sleep, no pause, no preservation, but allthings renew, germinate, and spring. Why should we import rags and relics into the new hour? Nature abhors the old, andold age seems the only disease; all others run into this one.We call it by many names, -fever, intemperance, insanity,stupidity, and crime; they are all forms of old age; they arerest, conservatism, appropriation, inertia, not newness, not the way onward. We grizzle every day. I see no need of it.Whilst we converse with what is above us, we do not grow old,but grow young. Infancy, youth, receptive, aspiring, with religious eye looking upward, counts itself nothing, and aban- dons itself to the instruction flowing from all sides. But theman 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 thembehold truth; and their eyes are uplifted, their wrinklessmoothed, they are perfumed again with hope and power. Thisold age ought not to creep on a human mind. In nature everymoment is new; the past is always swallowed and forgotten;the coming only is sacred. Nothing is secure but life, transition,the energizing spirit. No love can be bound by oath or cove- nant to secure it against a higher love. No truth so sublimebut it may be trivial to-morrow in the light of new thoughts.People wish to be settled; only as far as they are unsettledis there any hope for them.Life is a series of surprises. We do not guess to-day themood, the pleasure, the power of to-morrow, when we are building up our being. Of lower states,-of acts of routineand sense, —we can tell somewhat; but the masterpieces ofGod, the total growths and universal movements of the soul,he hideth; they are incalculable. I can know that truth isdivine 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 newposition of the advancing man has all the powers of the old,yet has them all new. It carries in its bosom all the energiesof the past, yet is itself an exhalation of the morning. I castaway in this new moment all my once hoarded knowledge, as134 ESSAY XI.vacant and vain. Now, for the first time, seem I to know any- thing rightly. The simplest words, -we do not know whatthey mean, except when we love and aspire.The difference between talents and character is adroitness tokeep the old and trodden round, and power and courage tomake a new road to new and better goals. Character makes an overpowering present; a cheerful, determined hour, whichfortifies all the company, by making them see that much is possible and excellent that was not thought of. Characterdulls the impression of particular events. When we see the conqueror, we do not think much of any one battle or success.We see that we had exaggerated the difficulty. It was easy tohim. The great man is not convulsible or tormentable; events pass over him without much impression. People say some- times, ' See what I have overcome; see how cheerful I am; seehow completely I have triumphed over these black events.'Not if they still remind me of the black event. Trueconquest is the causing the calamity to fade and disappear, asan early cloud of insignificant result in a history so large and advancing.The one thing which we seek with insatiable desire is to forget ourselves, to be surprised out of our propriety, to lose oursempiternal memory, and to do something without knowinghow or why; in short, to draw a new circle. Nothing greatwas ever achieved without enthusiasm. The way of life iswonderful: it is by abandonment. The great moments ofhistory are the facilities of performance through the strength of ideas, as the works of genius and religion. "A man," saidOliver Cromwell, " never_rises so high as when he knows notwhither he is going." Dreams and drunkenness, the use of opium and alcohol, are the semblance and counterfeit of thisoracular genius, and hence their dangerous attraction for men.For the like reason, they ask the aid of wild passions, as in gaming and war, to ape in some manner these flames andgenerosities of the heart.XI.-INTELLECT.Go, speed the stars of Thought On to their shining goals;-The sower scatters broad his seed,The wheat thou strew'st be souls.EVERYsubstance is negatively electric to that which stands above it in the chemical tables, positively to that which stands below it. Water dissolves wood, and iron, and salt; airINTELLECT. 135dissolves water; electric fire dissolves air, but the intellect dissolves fire, gravity, laws, method, and the subtlest unnamed relations of nature, in its resistless menstruum. Intellect liesbehind genius, which is intellect constructive. Intellect is thesimple power anterior to all action or construction. Gladly would I unfold in calm degrees a natural history of the intellect,but what man has yet been able to mark the steps and bound- aries of that transparent essence? The first questions arealways to be asked, and the wisest doctor is gravelled by the inquisitiveness of a child. How can we speak of the action ofthe mind under any divisions, as of its knowledge, of its ethics,of its works, and so forth, since it melts will into perception,knowledge into act? Each becomes the other. Itself alone is.Its vision is not like the vision of the eye, but is union with the things known.Intellect and intellection signify to the common ear consider- ation of abstract truth. The considerations of time and place, ofyou and me, of profit and hurt, tyrannize over most men's minds.Intellect separates the fact considered from you, from all localand personal reference, and discerns it as if it existed for itsown sake. Heracl*tus looked upon the affections as dense and coloured mists. In the fog of good and evil affections, it ishard for man to walk forward in a straight line. Intellect isvoid of affection, and sees an object as it stands in the light ofscience, cool and disengaged. The intellect goes out of the individual, floats over its own personality, and regards it as afact, and not as I and mine. He who is immersed in what concerns person or place cannot see the problem of existence.This the intellect always ponders. Nature shows all things formed and bound. The intellect pierces the form, overleapsthe wall, detects intrinsic likeness between remote things, andreduces all things into a few principles.The making a fact the subject of thought raises it. All thatmass of mental and moral phenomena, which we do not makeobjects of voluntary thought, come within the power of fortune;they constitute the circ*mstance of daily life; they are subject to change, to fear, and hope. Every man beholds his humancondition with a degree of melancholy. As a ship aground is battered by the waves, so man, imprisoned in mortal life, liesopen to the mercy of coming events. But a truth, separatedby the intellect, is no longer a subject of destiny. We beholdit as a god upraised above care and fear. And so any fact inour life, or any record of our fancies or reflections, disentangledfrom the web of our unconsciousness, becomes an object im- personal and immortal. It is the past restored, but embalmed.Abetter art than that of Egypt has taken fear and corruption out of it. It is eviscerated of care. It is offered for science.136 ESSAY XI.What is addressed to us for contemplation does not threaten us, but makes us intellectual beings.The growth of the intellect is spontaneous in every expansion.The mind that grows could not predict the times, the means,the mode of that spontaneity. God enters by a private doorinto every individual. Long prior to the age of reflection is thethinking of the mind. Out of darkness, it came insensibly intothe marvellous light of to-day. In the period of infancy itaccepted and disposed of all impressions from the surroundingcreation after its own way. Whatever any mind doth or saithis after a law; and this native law remains over it after it hascome to reflection or conscious thought. In the most worn,pedantic, introverted self- tormentor's life, the greatest part isincalculable by him, unforeseen, unimaginable, and must be,until he can take himself up by his own ears. What am I?What has my will done to make me that I am? Nothing. Ihave been floated into this thought, this hour, this connectionof events, by secret currents of might and mind, and my ingenuity and wilfulness have not thwarted, have not aided to anappreciable degree.Our spontaneous action is always the best. You cannot,with your best deliberation and heed, come so close to anyquestion as your spontaneous glance shall bring you, whilst yourise from your bed, or walk abroad in the morning after meditating the matter before sleep the previous night. Our thinking is a pious reception. Our truth of thought is thereforevitiated as much by too violent direction given by our will, asby too great negligence. We do not determine what we willthink. We only open our senses, clear away, as we can, all obstruction from the fact, and suffer the intellect to see. Wehave little control over our thoughts. We are the prisoners ofideas. They catch us up for moments into their heaven, andso fully engage us, that we take no thought for the morrow,gaze like children, without an effort to make them our own.By and by we fall out of that rapture, bethink us where we have been, what we have seen, and repeat, as truly as we can,what we have beheld. As far as we can recall these ecstacies,we carry away in the ineffaceable memory the result, and allmen and all the ages confirm it. It is called Truth. But themoment we cease to report, and attempt to correct and contrive,it is not truth.If we consider what persons have stimulated and profited us,we shall perceive the superiority of the spontaneous or intuitiveprinciple over the arithmetical or logical. The first contains the second, but virtual and latent. We want, in every man, along logic; we cannot pardon the absence of it, but it mustnot be spoken. Logic is the procession or proportionateINTELLECT. 137unfolding of the intuition; but its virtue is as silent method;the moment it would appear as propositions, and have aseparate 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. Youhave first an instinct, then an opinion, then a knowledge, as the plant has root, bud, and fruit. Trust the instinct to the end, though you can render no reason. It is vain to hurry it.By trusting it to the end, it shall ripen into truth, and you shall know why you believe.Each mind has its own method. A true man never acquiresafter college rules. What you have aggregated in a naturalmanner surprises and delights when it is produced. For we cannot oversee each other's secret. And hence the differencesbetween men in natural endowment are insignificant in comparison with their common wealth. Do you think the porterand the cook have no anecdotes, no experiences, no wondersfor you? Everybody knows as much as the savant. Thewalls of rude minds are scrawled all over with facts, withthoughts. They shall one day bring a lantern and read theinscriptions. Every man, in the degree in which he has witand culture, finds his curiosity inflamed concerning the modesof living and thinking of other men, and especially of thoseclasses whose minds have not been subdued by the drill of school education.This instinctive action never ceases in a healthy mind, butbecomes richer and more frequent in its informations through all states of culture. At last comes the era of reflection, whenwe not only observe, but take pains to observe; when we of set purpose sit down to consider an abstract truth; when we keepthe mind's eye open, whilst we converse, whilst we read,whilst we act, intent to learn the secret law of some class of facts.What is the hardest task in the world? To think. I wouldput myself in the attitude to look in the eye an abstract truth,and I cannot. I blench and withdraw on this side and onthat. I seem to know what he meant who said, No man can see God face to face and live. For example, a man exploresthe basis of civil government. Let him intend his mindwithout respite, without rest, in one direction. His best heed long time avails him nothing. Yet thoughts are flittingbefore him. We all but apprehend, we dimly forebode thetruth. We say, I will walk abroad, and the truth will take form and clearness to me. We go forth, but cannot find it.It seems as if we needed only the stillness and composed138 ESSAY XI,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, andunannounced, the truth appears. A certain, wandering lightappears, and is the distinction, the principle, we wanted. Butthe oracle comes, because we had previously laid siege to the shrine. It seems as if the law of the intellect resembled thatlaw of nature by which we now inspire, now expire the breath;by which the heart now draws in, then hurls out the bloodthe law of undulation. So now you must labour with yourbrains, and now you must forbear your activity, and see what the great Soul showeth.The immortality of man is as legitimately preached fromthe intellections as from the moral volitions. Every intellection is mainly prospective. Its present value is its least.Inspect what delights you in Plutarch, in Shakespeare, inCervantes. Each truth that a writer acquires is a lantern,which he turns full on what facts and thoughts lay already in his mind, and behold, all the mats and rubbish which hadlittered his garret become precious. Every trivial fact in hisprivate biography becomes an illustration of this newprinciple,revisits the day, and delights all men by its piquancy and new charm. Men say, Where did he get this? and thinkthere was something divine in his life. But no; they havemyriads of facts just as good, would they only get a lamp to ransack their attics withal.We are all wise. The difference between persons is not inwisdom but in art. I knew, in an academical club, a personwho always deferred to me, who, seeing my whim for writing,fancied that my experiences had somewhat superior; whilst Isaw that his experiences were as good as mine. Give them to me, and I would make the same use of them. He held theold; he holds the new; I had the habit of tacking together theold and the new, which he did not use to exercise. This mayhold in the great examples. Perhaps if we should meetShakespeare, we should not be conscious of any steep inferiority; no: but of great equality-only that he possessed astrange skill of using, of classifying, his facts, which welacked. For, notwithstanding our utter incapacity to produceanything like Hamlet and Othello, see the perfect reception this wit, and immense knowledge of life, and liquid eloquence find in us all.If you gather apples in the sunshine, or make hay, or hoe corn, and then retire within doors, and shut your eyes, andpress them with your hand, you shall still see apples hanging in the bright light, with boughs and leaves thereto, or thetasselled grass, or the corn- flags, and this for five or six hours afterwards. There lie the impressions on the retentive organ,INTELLECT. 139though you knew it not. So lies the whole series of natural images with which your life has made you acquainted in your memory, though you know it not, and a thrill of passion flashes light on their dark chamber, and the active power seizes instantly the fit image, as the word of its momentary thought.It is long ere we discover how rich we are. Our history, weare sure, is quite tame: we have nothing to write, nothing to infer. But our wiser years still run back to the despised recollections of childhood, and always we are fishing up somewonderful article out of that pond; until, by and by, we beginto suspect that the biography of the one foolish person weknow is, in reality, nothing less than the miniature paraphraseof the hundred volumes of the Universal History.In the intellect constructive, which we popularly designateby the word Genius, we observe the same balance of two elements as in intellect receptive. The constructive intellectproduces thoughts, sentences, poems, plans, designs, systems.It is the generation of the mind, the marriage of thought with nature. To genius must always go two gifts, the thought and the publication. The first is revelation, always a miracle,which no frequency of occurrence or incessant study can ever familiarize, but which must always leave the inquirer stupid with wonder. It is the advent of truth into the 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 immea- surable greatness. It seems, for the time, to inherit all that has yet existed, and to dictate to the unborn. It affects every thought of man, and goes to fashion every institution. But to make it available, it needs a vehicle or art by which it is con- veyed to men. To be communicable, it must become pictureor 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 lightpasses invisible through space, and only when it falls on an object is it seen. When the spiritual energy is directed onsomething outward, then it is a thought. The relation between it and you first makes you, the value of you, apparent to me.The rich, inventive genius of the painter must be smothered and lost for want of the power of drawing, and in our happyhours we should be inexhaustible poets, if once we could break through the silence into adequate rhyme. As all men have some access to primary truth, so all have some art or power of communication in their head, but only in the artist does it descend into the hand. There is an inequality, whose laws we do not yet know, between two men and between two moments of the same man, in respect to this faculty. In common hours, we140 ESSAY XI.have the same facts as in the uncommon or inspired, but theydo not sit for their portraits; they are not detached, but lie in a web. The thought of genius is spontaneous; but the powerof picture or expression, in the most enriched and flowingnature, implies a mixture of will, a certain control over thespontaneous states, without which no production is possible.It is a conversion of all nature into the rhetoric of thought,under the eye of judgment, with a strenuous exercise of choice.And yet the imaginative vocabulary seems to be spontaneous also. It does not flow from experience only or mainly, but from a richer source. Not by any conscious imitation ofparticular forms are the grand strokes of the painter executed,but by repairing to the fountain-head of all forms in his mind.Who is the first drawing-master? Without instruction we know very well the ideal of the human form. A child knows ifan arm or a leg be distorted in a picture, if the attitude benatural or grand, or mean, though he has never received anyinstruction in drawing, or heard any conversation on thesubject, nor can himself draw with correctness a single feature.A good form strikes all eyes pleasantly, long before they have any science on the subject, and a beautiful face setstwenty hearts in palpitation, prior to all consideration of themechanical proportions of the features and head. We mayowe to dreams some light on the fountain of this skill; for, as soon as we let our will go, and let the unconscious statesensue, see what cunning draughtsmen we are! We entertainourselves with wonderful forms of men, of women, of animals,of gardens, of woods, and of monsters, and the mystic pencil wherewith we then draw has no awkwardness or inexperience,no meagreness or poverty; it can design well, and group well;its composition is full of art, its colours are well laid on, andthe whole canvas which it paints is lifelike, and apt to touchus with terror, with tenderness, with desire, and with grief.Neither are the artist's copies from experience ever mere copies, but always touched and softened by tints from this ideal domain.The conditions essential to a constructive mind do not appearto be so often combined but that a good sentence or verseremains fresh and memorable for a long time. Yet when wewrite with ease, and come out into the free air of thought, weseem to be assured that nothing is easier than to continue thiscommunication at pleasure. Up, down, around, the kingdomof thought has no inclosures, but the Muse makes us free ofher city. Well, the world has a million writers. One wouldthink, then, that good thought would be as familiar as air andwater, and the gifts of each new hour would exclude the last.Yet we can count all our good books; nay, I remember anyINTELLECT. 141beautiful verse for twenty years. It is true that the discerning intellect of the world is always much in advance of thecreative, so that there are many competent judges of the best book, and few writers of the best books. But some of the con- ditions of intellectual construction are of rare occurrence. Theintellect is a whole, and demands integrity in every work. Thisis 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 fora long time, the truth becomes distorted and not itself, butfalsehood; herein resembling the air, which is our naturalelement, and the breath of our nostrils, but if a stream of thesame be directed on the body for a time, it causes cold, fever,and even death. Howwearisome the grammarian, the phrenologist, the political or religious fanatic, or indeed any possessed mortal whose balance is lost by the exaggeration of a singletopic. It is incipient insanity. Every thought is a prison also.I cannot see what you see, because I amcaught up by a strong wind, and blown so far in one direction that I am out of thehoop of your horizon.Is it any better, if the student, to avoid this offence, and toliberalize himself, aims to make a mechanical whole of history,or science, or philosophy, by a numerical addition of all the facts that fall within his vision? The world refuses to beanalyzed by addition and subtraction. When we are young, wespend much time and pains in filling our note-books with all definitions of Religion, Love, Poetry, Politics, Art, in the hopethat, in the course of a few years, we shall have condensed into our encyclopædia the net value of all the theories at which theworld has yet arrived. But year after year our tables get nocompleteness, and at last we discover that our curve is a para- bola, whose arcs will never meet.Neither by detachment, neither by aggregation, is the integrity of the intellect transmitted to its works, but by a vigilance which brings the intellect in its greatness and best state to operate every moment. It must have the same wholeness whichnature has. Although no diligence can rebuild the universein a model, by the best accumulation or disposition of details,yet does the world reappear in miniature in every event, so thatall the laws of nature may be read in the smallest fact. Theintellect must have the like perfection in its apprehension and in its works. For this reason, an index or mercury of intellectual proficiency is the perception of identity. We talk withaccomplished persons who appear to be strangers in nature.The cloud, the tree, the turf, the bird are not theirs, havenothing of them: the world is only their lodging and table.142 ESSAY XI.But the poet, whose verses are to be spheral and complete, isone whom Nature cannot deceive, whatsoever face of strange- ness she may put on. He feels a strict consanguinity, anddetects more likeness than variety in all her changes. We arestung by the desire for new thought; but when we receive anew thought, it is only the old thought with a new face, andthough we make it our own, we instantly crave another; we arenot really enriched. For the truth was in us before it was reflected to us from natural objects; and the profound genius will cast the likeness of all creatures into every product of his wit.But if the constructive powers are rare, and it is given to fewmen to be poets, yet every man is a receiver of this descendingholy ghost, and may well study the laws of its influx. Exactly parallel is the whole rule of intellectual duty to the rule ofmoral duty. A self-denial, no less austere than the saint's, is demanded of the scholar. He must worship truth, and foregoall 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 ofrepose predominates will accept the first creed, the first philosophy, the first political party he meets-most likely his father's. He gets rest, commodity, and reputation; but heshuts the door of truth. He in whom the love of truth pre- dominates will keep himself aloof from all moorings, and afloat.He will abstain from dogmatism, and recognize all the oppositenegations, between which, as walls, his being is swung. He submits to the inconvenience of suspense and imperfect opinion,but he is a candidate for truth, as the other is not, and respectsthe highest law of his being.TheThe 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 thanin speaking. Happy is the hearing man; unhappy the speak- ing man. As long as I hear truth, I am bathed by a beautifulelement, and am not conscious of any limits to my nature.The suggestions are thousandfold that I hear and see.waters of the great deep have ingress and egress to the soul.But if I speak, I define, I confine, and am less. When Socratesspeaks, Lysis and Menexenus are afflicted by no shame that they do not speak. They also are good. He likewise defers tothem, loves them, whilst he speaks. Because a true and naturalman contains and is the same truth which an eloquent manarticulates; but in the eloquent man, because he can articulate it, it seems something the less to reside, and he turns to theseINTELLECT. 143silent beautiful with the more inclination and respect. Theancient sentence said, Let us be silent, for so are the gods.Silence is a solvent that destroys personality, and gives us leaveto be great and universal. Every man's progress is through asuccession of teachers, each of whom seems at the time to havea superlative influence, but it at last gives place to a new.Frankly let him accept it all. Jesus says, Leave father, mother,house and lands, and follow me. Who leaves all, receives more.This is as true intellectually as morally. Each new mind weapproach seems to require an abdication of all our past andpresent 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 hasHegel or his interpreter Cousin, seemed to many young men inthis country. Take thankfully and heartily all they can give.Exhaust them, wrestle with them, let them not go until theirblessing be won, and, after a short season, the dismay will beoverpast, the excess of influence withdrawn, and they will be nolonger an alarming meteor, but one more bright star shiningserenely in your heaven, and blending its light with all your day.But whilst he gives himself up unreservedly to that which draws him, because that is his own, he is to refuse himself tothat which draws him not, whatsoever fame and authority may attend it, because it is not his own. Entire self- reliancebelongs to the intellect. One soul is a counterpoise of all souls,as a capillary column of water is a balance for the sea. Itmust treat things, and books, and sovereign genius, as itselfalso a sovereign. If Eschylus be that man he is taken for, hehas not yet done his office, when he has educated the learnedof 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 tosacrifice a thousand Eschyluses to my intellectual integrity.Especially take the same ground in regard to abstract truth,the science of the mind. The Bacon, the Spinoza, the Hume,Schelling, Kant, or whosoever propounds to you a philosophyof the mind, is only a more or less awkward translator ofthings in your consciousness, which you have also your way ofseeing, perhaps of denominating. Say, then, instead of tootimidly poring into his obscure sense, that he has not suc- ceeded in rendering back to you your consciousness. He has not succeeded; now let another try. If Plato cannot, perhapsSpinoza will. If Spinoza cannot, then perhaps Kant. Anyhow,when at last it is done, you will find it is no recondite, but asimple, natural, common state, which the writer restores to you.But let us end these didactics. I will not, though the subject144 ESSAY XI.might provoke it, speak to the open question between Truthand Love. I shall not presume to interfere in the old politics of the skies; -" The cherubim know most; the seraphim love most." The gods shall settle their own quarrels. But I can- not recite, even thus rudely, laws of the intellect, without remembering that lofty and sequestered class who have been its prophets and oracles, the high priesthood of the pure reason,the Trismegisti, the expounders of the principles of thought from age to age. When, at long intervals, we turn over their abstruse pages, wonderful seems the calm and grand air of these few, these great spiritual lords, who have walked in the world- these of the old religion-dwelling in a worship which makes the sanctities of Christianity look parvenues and popular; for "persuasion is in soul, but necessity is in intellect." This band of grandees, Hermes, Heracl*tus, Empedocles, Plato, Plotinus,Olympiodorus, Proclus, Synesius, and the rest, have somewhatso vast in their logic, so primary in their thinking, that it seems antecedent to all the ordinary distinctions of rhetoric and literature, and to be at once poetry, and music, and dancing,and astronomy, and mathematics. I am present at the sowing of the seed of the world. With a geometry of sunbeams, the soul lays the foundations of nature. The truth and grandeur of their thought is proved by its scope and applicability, for it commands the entire schedule and inventory of things for its illustration. But what marks its elevation, and has even acomic look to us, is the innocent serenity with which these babe- like Jupiters sit in their clouds, and from age to age prattle to each other, and to no contemporary. Well assured that their speech is intelligible, and the most natural thing in the world,they add thesis to thesis, without a moment's heed of the uni- versal astonishment of the human race below, who do not comprehend their plainest argument; nor do they ever relent so much as to insert a popular or explaining sentence; nor testify the least displeasure or petulance at the dulness of their amazed auditory. The angels are so enamoured of the language that is spoken in heaven, that they will not distort their lips with the hissing and unmusical dialects of men, but speak their own,whether there be any who understand it or not.145BEXII.-ART.Give to barrows, trays, and pansGrace and glimmer of romance,Bring the moonlight into noonHid in gleaming piles of stone;On the city's paved streetPlant gardens lined with lilac sweet,Let spouting fountains cool the air,Singing in the sun-baked square;Let statue, picture, park, and hall,Ballad, flag, and festival,The past restore, the day adorn,And make each morrow a new morn.So shall the drudge in dusty frock Spy behind the city clock Retinues of airy kings,Skirts of angels, starry wings,His fathers shining in bright fables,His children fed at heavenly tables."Tis the privilege of Art Thus to play its cheerful part,Man in earth to acclimate,And bend the exile to his fate,And, moulded of one element With the days and firmament,Teach him on these as stairs to climb,And live on even terms with Time;Whilst upper life the slender rill Ofhuman sense doth overfill.ECAUSE the soul is progressive, it never quite repeatsitself, but in every act attempts the production of a new and fairer whole. This appears in works both of the useful and the fine arts, if we employ the popular distinction of works according to their aim either at use or beauty. Thus in our fine arts, not imitation, but creation, is the aim. Inlandscapes, the painter should give the suggestion of a fairer creation than we know. The details, the prose of nature heshould omit, and give us only the spirit and splendour. He should know that the landscape has beauty for his eye, because it expresses a thought which is to him good; and this, because the same power which sees through his eyes is seen in that spectacle; and he will come to value the expression of nature,and not nature itself, and so exalt in his copy the features that please him. He will give the gloom of gloom, and the sun- shine of sunshine. In a portrait, he must inscribe the cha- VOL. I. L146 ESSAY XII.racter, and not the features, and must esteem the man whosits to him as himself only an imperfect picture or likeness ofthe aspiring original within.What is that abridgment and selection we observe in allspiritual activity, but itself the creative impulse? for it is theinlet of that higher illumination which teaches to convey alarger sense by simpler symbols. What is a man but nature'sfiner success in self- explication? What is a man but a finerand compacter landscape than the horizon figures-nature'seclecticism? and what is his speech, his love of painting, loveof nature, but a still finer success? all the weary miles andtons of space and bulk left out, and the spirit or moral of itcontracted into a musical word, or the most cunning stroke of the pencil?But the artist must employ the symbols in use in his dayand nation, to convey his enlarged sense to his fellow-men.Thus the new in art is always formed out of the old. The Genius of the Hour sets his ineffaceable seal on the work, andgives it an inexpressible charm for the imagination. As far asthe spiritual character of the period overpowers the artist, andfinds expression in his work, so far it will retain a certaingrandeur, and will represent to future beholders the Unknown,the Inevitable, the Divine. No man can quite exclude thiselement of Necessity from his labour. No man can quiteemancipate himself from his age and country, or produce amodel in which the education, the religion, the politics, usages,and arts, of his times shall have no share. Though he werenever so original, never so wilful and fantastic, he cannot wipe out of his work every trace of the thoughts amidst which itgrew. The very avoidance betrays the usage he avoids. Above his will, and out of his sight, he is necessitated, by the air hebreathes, and the idea on which he and his contemporaries liveand toil, to share the manner of his times, without knowing what that manner is. Now that which is inevitable in thework has a higher charm than individual talent can ever give,inasmuch as the artist's pen or chisel seems to have been heldand guided by a gigantic hand to inscribe a line in the history of the human race. This circ*mstance gives a value to theEgyptian hieroglyphics, to the Indian, Chinese, and Mexicanidols, however gross and shapeless . They denote the height of the human soul in that hour, and were not fantastic, butsprung from a necessity as deep as the world. Shall I nowadd, that the whole extant product of the plastic arts hasherein its highest value, as history; as a stroke drawn in theportrait of that fate, perfect and beautiful, according to whoseordinations all beings advance to their beatitude?Thus, historically viewed, it has been the office of art toART. 1471educate the perception of beauty. We are immersed in beauty,but our eyes have no clear vision. It needs, by the exhibitionof single traits, to assist and lead the dormant taste. Wecarve and paint, or we behold what is carved and painted, as students of the mystery of Form. The virtue of art lies indetachment, in sequestering one object from the embarrassing variety. Until one thing comes out from the connection ofthings, there can be enjoyment, contemplation, but no thought.Our happiness and unhappiness are unproductive. The infant lies in a pleasing trance, but his individual character and hispractical power depend on his daily progress in the separationof things, and dealing with one at a time. Love and all thepassions concentrate all existence around a single form. It is the habit of certain minds to give an all- excluding fulness tothe object, the thought, the word, they alight upon, and tomake that for the time the deputy of the world. These are the artists, the orators , the leaders of society. The power todetach, and to magnify by detaching, is the essence of rhetoric in the hands of the orator and the poet. This rhetoric, orpower to fix the momentary eminency of an object-so re- markable in Burke, in Byron, in Carlyle-the painter andsculptor exhibit in colour and in stone. The power depends onthe depth of the artist's insight of that object he contemplates.For every object has its roots in central nature, and may ofcourse be so exhibited to us as to represent the world. Therefore, each work of genius is the tyrant of the hour, andconcentrates attention on itself. For the time, it is the only thing worth naming to do that-be it a sonnet, an opera, alandscape, a statue, an oration, the plan of a temple, of acampaign, or of a voyage of discovery. Presently we pass tosome other object, which rounds itself into a whole, as did thefirst; for example, a well-laid garden: and nothing seemsworth doing but the laying out of gardens. I should think firethe best thing in the world, if I were not acquainted with air,and water, and earth. For it is the right and property of allnatural objects, of all genuine talents, of all native properties whatsoever, to be for their moment the top of the world. Asquirrel leaping from bough to bough, and making the woodbut one wide tree for his pleasure, fills the eye not less than alion-is beautiful, self- sufficing, and stands then and there fornature. A good ballad draws my ear and heart whilst I listen,as much as an epic has done before. A dog, drawn by amaster, or a litter of pigs, satisfies, and is a reality not less than the frescoes of Angelo. From this succession of excellentobjects, we learn at last the immensity of the world, the opulence of human nature, which can run out to infinitude inany direction. But I also learn that what astonished and148 ESSAY XII.fascinated me in the first work astonished me in the secondwork also; that excellence of all things is one.66The office of painting and sculpture seems to be merelyinitial. The best pictures can easily tell us their last secret.The best pictures are rude draughts of a few of the miracu- lous dots and lines and dyes which make up the ever-changinglandscape with figures " amidst which we dwell. Painting seems to be to the eye what dancing is to the limbs. When that has educated 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 ex- pression of form, and, as I see many pictures and highergenius in the art, I see the boundless opulence of the pencil,the indifferency in which the artist stands free to choose out ofthe possible forms. If he can draw everything, why draw any- thing? and then is my eye opened to the eternal picture which nature paints in the street with moving men and children,beggars, and fine ladies, draped in red, and green, and blue,and gray; long- haired, grizzled, white-faced, black-faced, wrinkled, giant, dwarf, expanded, elfish-capped and based by heaven, earth, and sea.A gallery of sculpture teaches more austerely the samelesson. As picture teaches the colouring, so sculpture theanatomy of form. When I have seen fine statues and afterwards enter a public assembly, I understand well what he meant who said, " When I have been reading Homer, all menlook like giants." I too see that painting and sculpture aregymnastics of the eye, its training to the niceties and curiosities of its function. There is no statue like this living man, withhis infinite advantage over all ideal sculpture, of perpetualvariety. What a gallery of art have I here! No mannerist made these varied groups and diverse original single figures.Here is the artist himself improvising, grim and glad, at hisblock. Now one thought strikes him, now another, and with each moment he alters the whole air, attitude, and expressionof his clay. Away with your nonsense of oil and easels, of marble and chisels: except to open your eyes to the masteriesof 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 allART. 149the great human influences overpower the accidents of a localand special culture, is the best critic of art. Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us, orwe find it not. The best of beauty is a finer charm than skillin surfaces, in outlines, or rules of art can ever teach, namely,a radiation from the work of art of human character-awonderful expression through stone, or canvas, or musical sound, of the deepest and simplest attributes of our nature, andtherefore most intelligible at last to those souls which havethese attributes. In the sculptures of the Greeks, in the masonry of the Romans, and in the pictures of the Tuscan andVenetian masters, the highest charm is the universal languagethey speak. A confession of moral nature, of purity, love, andhope, breathes from them all. That which we carry to them,the same we bring back more fairly illustrated in the memory.The traveller who visits the Vatican, and passes from chamber to chamber through galleries of statues, vases, sarcophagi, andcandelabra, through all forms of beauty, cut in the richestmaterials, is in danger of forgetting the simplicity of theprinciples out of which they all sprung, and that theyhad theirorigin from thoughts and laws in his own breast. He studies the technical rules on these wonderful remains, but forgetsthat these works were not always thus constellated; that they are the contributions of many ages and many countries; thateach came out of the solitary workshop of one artist, whotoiled 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 beatinghearts, and meeting eyes, of poverty, and necessity, and hope,and fear. These were his inspirations, and these are theeffects he carries home to your heart and mind. In proportion to his force, the artist will find in his work an outlet for hisproper character. He must not be in any manner pinched orhindered by his material, but through his necessity of im- parting himself the adamant will be wax in his hands, and willallow an adequate communication of himself, in his full stature and proportion. He need not cumber himself with aconventional nature and culture, nor ask what is the mode inRome or in Paris, but that house, and weather, and manner ofliving which poverty and the fate of birth have made at once so odious and so dear, in the gray, unpainted wood cabin, on the corner of a New Hampshire farm, or in the log- hut of thebackwoods, or in the narrow lodging where he has endured theconstraints and seeming of a city poverty, will serve as well asany other condition as the symbol of a thought which pours itself indifferently through all.I remember, when in my younger days I had heard of the150 ESSAY XII.wonders of Italian painting, I fancied the great pictures would be great strangers; some surprising combination of colour andform; a foreign wonder, barbaric pearl and gold, like the spontoons and standards of the militia, which play such pranksin the eyes and imaginations of schoolboys. I was to see andacquire I knew not what. When I came at last to Rome, and saw with eyes the pictures, I found that genius left to novicesthe gay and fantastic and ostentatious, and itself pierceddirectly to the simple and true; that it was familiar and sincere; that it was the old, eternal fact I had met already inso 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 atNaples. There I saw that nothing was changed with me butthe place, and said to myself—“ Thou foolish child, hast thou come out hither, over four thousand miles of salt water, to findthat which was perfect to thee there at home?"-that fact I sawagain in the Academmia at Naples, in the chambers of sculpture, and yet again when I came to Rome, and to the paintings of Raphael, Angelo, Sacchi, Titian, and Leonardo da Vinci.'What, old mole! workest thou in the earth so fast?" It hadtravelled by my side: that which I fancied I had left in Bostonwas here in the Vatican, and again at Milan, and at Paris, andmade all travelling ridiculous as a treadmill. I now requirethis of all pictures, that they domesticate me, not that they dazzle me. Pictures must not be too picturesque. Nothingastonishes men so much as common-sense and plain dealing.All great actions have been simple, and all great pictures are.66The Transfiguration, by Raphael, is an eminent example ofthis peculiar merit. A calm, benignant beauty shines over allthis picture, and goes directly to the heart. It seems almost to call you by name. The sweet and sublime face of Jesus isbeyond praise, yet how it disappoints all florid expectations!This familiar, simple, home- speaking countenance is as if oneshould meet a friend. The knowledge of picture-dealers has itsvalue, but listen not to their criticism when your heart is touched by genius. It was not painted for them, it was paintedfor you; for such as had eyes capable of being touched by sim- plicity 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. He has con- ceived meanly of the resources of man, who believes that the best age of production is past. The real value of the Iliad, or the Transfiguration, is as signs of power; billows or ripples they are of the stream of tendency; tokens of the everlastingART. 151effort to produce, which even in its worst estate the soulbetrays. Art has not yet come to its maturity, if it do not putit*elf abreast with the most potent influences of the world, ifit is not practical and moral, if it do not stand in connectionwith the conscience, if it do not make the poor and uncultivatedfeel that it addresses them with a voice of lofty cheer. Thereis higher work for Art than the arts. They are abortive birthsof an imperfect or vitiated instinct. Art is the need to create;but in its essence, immense and universal, it is impatient ofworking with lame or tied hands, and of making cripples andmonsters, such as all pictures and statues are. Nothing less than the creation of man and nature is its end. A man shouldfind in it an outlet for his whole energy. He may paint andcarve only as long as he can do that. Art should exhilarate,and throw down the walls of circ*mstance on every side,awakening in the beholder the same sense of universal relationand power which the work evinced in the artist, and its highest effect is to make new artists.Already History is old enough to witness the old age anddisappearance of particular arts. The art of sculpture is long ago perished to any real effect. It was originally a useful art,a mode of writing, a savage's record of gratitude or devotion,and among a people possessed of a wonderful perception ofform this childish carving was refined to the utmost splendourof effect. But it is the game of a rude and youthful people, and not the manly labour of a wise and spiritual nation. Underan oak- tree loaded with leaves and nuts, under a sky full of eternal eyes, I stand in a thoroughfare; but in the works ofour plastic arts, and especially of sculpture, creation is driven into a corner. I cannot hide from myself that there is a certain appearance of paltriness, as of toys, and the trumpery ofa theatre, in sculpture. Nature transcends all our moods ofthought, and its secret we do not yet find. But the gallerystands at the mercy of our moods, and there is a moment when it becomes frivolous. I do not wonder that Newton, with anattention habitually engaged on the paths of planets and suns,should have wondered what the Earl of Pembroke found toadmire in "stone dolls." Sculpture may serve to teach thepupil how deep is the secret of form, how purely the spirit can translate its meanings into that eloquent dialect. But thestatue will look cold and false before that new activity whichneeds to roll through all things, and is impatient of counter- feits, and things not alive. Picture and sculpture are the celebrations andfestivities of form. But true art is never fixed,but always flowing. The sweetest music is not in the oratorio,but in the human voice when it speaks from its instant life tones of tenderness, truth, or courage. The oratorio has152 ESSAY XII.already lost its relation to the morning, to the sun, and the earth, but that persuading voice is in tune with these. Allworks of art should not be detached, but extempore perform- ances. A great man is a new statue in every attitude andaction. A beautiful woman is a picture which drives allbeholders nobly mad. Life may be lyric or epic, as well as apoem or a romance.A true announcement of the law of creation, if a man werefound worthy to declare it, would carry art up into the kingdom of nature, and destroy its separate and contrasted existence.The fountains of invention and beauty in modern society areall but dried up. A popular novel, a theatre, or a ball- roommakes us feel that we are all paupers in the almshouse of thisworld, without dignity, without skill, or industry. Art is aspoor and low. The old tragic Necessity, which lowers on the brows even of the Venuses and the Cupids of the antique, andfurnishes the sole apology for the intrusion of such anomalousfigures into nature—namely, that they were inevitable; thatthe artist was drunk with a passion for form which he could not resist, and which vented itself in these fine extravagancesno longer dignifies the chisel or the pencil. But the artist and .the connoisseur now seek in art the exhibition of their talent,or an asylum from the evils of life. Men are not well pleasedwith the figure they make in their own imaginations, and theyflee to art, and convey their better sense in an oratorio, astatue, or a picture. Art makes the same effort which a sensualprosperity makes; namely, to detach the beautiful from theuseful, to do up the work as unavoidable, and, hating it, passon to enjoyment. These solaces and compensations, thisdivision of beauty from use, the laws of nature do not permit.As soon as beauty is sought, not from religion and love, but forpleasure, it degrades the seeker. High beauty is no longerattainable by him in canvas or in stone, in sound, or in lyricalconstruction; an effeminate, prudent, sickly beauty, which is not beauty, is all that can be formed; for the hand can neverexecute anything higher than the character can inspire.The art that thus separates is itself first separated. Artmust not be a superficial talent, but must begin farther back in man. Now men do not see nature to be beautiful, and they goto make a statue which shall be. They abhor men as tasteless,dull, and inconvertible, and console themselves with colourbags, and blocks of marble. They reject life as prosaic, andcreate a death which they call poetic . They despatch the day'sweary chores, and fly to voluptuous reveries. They eat anddrink, that they may afterwards execute the ideal. Thus is art vilified; the name conveys to the mind its secondary and badsenses; it stands in the imagination as somewhat contrary toART. 153nature, and struck with death from the first. Would it not bebetter to begin higher up-to serve the ideal before they eatand 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 thefine and the useful arts be forgotten. If history were trulytold, if life were nobly spent, it would be no longer easy orpossible to distinguish the one from the other. In nature, all is useful, all is beautiful. It is therefore beautiful, because it isalive, moving, reproductive; it is therefore useful, because itis symmetrical and fair. Beauty will not come at the call of alegislature, nor will it repeat in England or America its historyin Greece. It will come, as always, unannounced, and spring up between the feet of brave and earnest men. It is in vainthat we look for genius to reiterate its miracles in the old arts;it is its instinct to find beauty and holiness in new and neces- sary facts, in the field and road- side, in the shop and mill.Proceeding from a religious heart it will raise to a divine use the railroad, the insurance office, the joint- stock company, ourlaw, our primary assemblies, our commerce, the galvanic bat- tery, the electric jar, the prism, and the chemist's retort, in which we seek now only an economical use. Is not the selfishand even cruel aspect which belongs to our great mechanicalworks-to mills, railways, and machinery-the effect of the mercenary impulses which these works obey? When itserrands are noble and adequate, a steamboat bridging the Atlantic between Old and New England, and arriving at itsports with the punctuality of a planet, is a step of man into harmony with nature. The boat at St. Petersburgh, which plies along the Lena by magnetism, needs little to make it sublime. When science is learned in love, and its powers arewielded by love, they will appear the supplements and continu- ations of the material creation.154 ESSAY XIII.XIII. THE POET.A moody child and wildly wise Pursued the game with joyful eyes,Which chose, like meteors, their way,And rived the dark with private ray:They overleapt the horizon's edge,Searched with Apollo's privilege;Through man, and woman, and sea, and star,Saw the dance of nature forward far;Through worlds, and races, and terms, and times,Saw musical order, and pairing rhymes.Olympian bards who sung Divine ideas below,Which always find us young,And always keep us so.HOSE who are esteemed umpires of taste, are often persons THOSE who are esteemsome knowledge of admired picturesor sculptures, and have an inclination for whatever is elegant;but if you inquire whether they are beautiful souls, andwhether their own acts are like fair pictures, you learn thatthey are selfish and sensual. Their cultivation is local, as ifyou should rub a log of dry wood in one spot to produce fire,all the rest remaining cold. Their knowledge of the fine artsis some study of rules and particulars, or some limited judg- ment of colour or form, which is exercised for amusem*nt orfor show. It is a proof of the shallowness of the doctrine ofbeauty, as it lies in the minds of our amateurs, that men seem tohave lost the perception of the instant dependence of formupon soul. There is no doctrine of forms in our philosophy.We were put into our bodies, as fire is put into a pan, to becarried about; but there is no accurate adjustment between thespirit and the organ, much less is the latter the germination of the former. So in regard to other forms, the intellectual mendo not believe in any essential dependence of the material worldonthought and volition. Theologians think it a pretty air- castleto talk of the spiritual meaning of a ship or a cloud, of a cityor a contract, but they prefer to come again to the solid groundof historical evidence; and even the poets are contented with acivil and conformed manner of living, and to write poems fromthe fancy, at a safe distance from their own experience. Butthe highest minds of the world have never ceased to explore the double meaning, or, shall I say, the quadruple, or the centuple,or much more manifold meaning, of every sensuous fact:THE POET. 155Orpheus, Empedocles, Heracl*tus, Plato, Plutarch, Dante,Swedenborg, and the masters of sculpture, picture, and poetry.For we are not pans and barrows, nor even porters of the fire and torch-bearers, but children of the fire, made of it, and only the same divinity transmuted, and at two or three removes, when we know least about it. And this hidden truth, that the foun- tains whence all this river of Time, and its creatures, flowethare intrinsically ideal and beautiful, draws ustothe consideration of the nature and functions of the Poet or the man of Beauty,to the means and materials he uses, and to the general aspect of the art in the present time.The breadth of the problem is great, for the poet is representative. He stands among partial men for the complete man,and apprises us not of his wealth, but of the commonwealth.The young man reveres men of genius, because, to speak truly,they are more himself than he is. They receive of the soul as he also receives, but they more. Nature enhances her beauty,to the eye of loving men, from their belief that the poet is beholding her shows at the same time. He is isolated among his contemporaries, by truth and by his art, but with this consolation in his pursuits, that they will draw all men sooneror later. For all men live by truth, and stand in need ofexpression. In love, in art, in avarice, in politics, in labour, ingames, we study to utter our painful secret. The man is only half himself, the other half is his expression.Notwithstanding this necessity to be published, adequate expression is rare. I know not how it is that we need aninterpreter; but the great majority of men seem to be minors,who have not yet come into possession of their own, or mutes,who cannot report the conversation they have had with nature.There is no man who does not anticipate a supersensual utility in the sun, and stars, earth, and water. These stand and wait to render him a peculiar service. But there is some obstruction, or some excess of phlegm in our constitution,which does not suffer them to yield the due effect. Too feeble fall the impressions of nature on us to make us artists. Every touch should thrill. Every man should be so much an artist,that he could report in conversation what had befallen him.Yet, in our experience, the rays or appulses have sufficient force to arrive at the senses, but not enough to reach the quick, and compel the reproduction of themselves in speech.The poet is the person in whom these powers are in balance,the man without impediment, who sees and handles that which others dream of, traverses the whole scale of experience, and is representative of man, in virtue of being the largest power to receive and to impart.For the Universe has three children, born at one time, which156 ESSAY XIII.reappear, under different names, in every system of thought,whether they be called cause, operation, and effect; or, morepoetically, 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 respectivelyfor the love of truth, for the love of good, and for the love ofbeauty. These three are equal. Each is that which he isessentially, so that he cannot be surmounted or analyzed, andeach of these three has the power of the others latent in him,and his own patent.The poet is the sayer, the namer, and represents beauty.He is a sovereign, and stands on the centre. For the world isnot painted, or adorned, but is from the beginning beautiful;and God has not made some beautiful things, but Beauty is the creator of the universe. Therefore the poet is not any permissive potentate, but is emperor in his own right. Criticism is infested with a cant of materialism, which assumes that manualskill and activity is the first merit of all men, and disparagessuch as say and do not, overlooking the fact, that some men,namely, poets, are natural sayers, sent into the world to theend of expression, and confounds them with those whoseprovince is action, but who quit it to imitate the sayers. ButHomer's words are as costly and admirable to Homer, asAgamemnon's victories are to Agamemnon. The poet does notwait 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 thestudio of a painter, or as assistants who bring building mate- rials to an architect.For poetry was all written before time was, and whenever weare so finely organized that we can penetrate into that region where the air is music, we hear those primal warblings, andattempt to write them down, but we lose ever and anon a word,or a verse, and substitute something of our own, and thusmiswrite the poem. The men of more delicate ear write downthese cadences more faithfully, and these transcripts, thoughimperfect, become the songs of the nations. For nature is astruly beautiful as it is good, or as it is reasonable, and must as much appear, as it must be done, or be known. Words anddeeds 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. Heis a beholder of ideas, and an utterer of the necessary andTHE POET. 157causal. Forwe do not speak nowof men of poetical talents, orof industry and skill in metre, but of the true poet. I tookpart in a conversation, the other day, concerning a recent writer of lyrics, a man of subtle mind, whose head appeared tobe a music-box of delicate tunes and rhythms, and whose skill,and command of language, we could not sufficiently praise. Butwhen the question arose, whether he was not only a lyrist, but a poet, we were obliged to confess that he is plainly a contem- porary, not an eternal man. He does not stand out of our lowlimitations, like a Chimborazo under the line, running up froma torrid base through all the climates of the globe, with beltsof 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 andwomen standing and sitting in the walks and terraces. Wehear, through all the varied music, the ground-tone of conventional life. Our poets are men of talents who sing, and notthe 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 thespirit of a plant or an animal, it has an architecture of its own,and adorns nature with a new thing. The thought and theform are equal in the order of time, but in the order of genesisthe thought is prior to the form. The poet has a newthought:he has a whole new experience to unfold; he will tell us how it was with him, and all men will be the richer in his fortune.For the experience of each new age requires a new confession,and the world seems always waiting for its poet. I remember,when I was young, how much I was moved one morning bytidings that genius had appeared in a youth who sat near me at table. He had left his work, and gone rambling none knewwhither, and had written hundreds of lines, but could not tell whether that which was in him was therein told: he could tellnothing but that all was changed-man, beast, heaven, earth,and sea. How gladly we listened! how credulous! Societyseemed to be compromised. We sat in the aurora of a sunrisewhich 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 Shakespearewere in the yellow leaf, and Homer no more should be heard of.It is much to know that poetry has been written this very day,under this very roof, by your side. What! that wonderfulspirit has not expired! These stony moments are still spark- ling and animated! I had fancied that the oracles wereall silent, and nature had spent her fires, and behold! all night,from every pore, these fine auroras have been streaming.158 ESSAY XIII.Every one has some interest in the advent of the poet, and noone knows how much it may concern him. We know that thesecret of the world is profound, but who or what shall be ourinterpreter, we know not. A mountain ramble, a new style of face, a new person, may put the key into our hands. Ofcourse,the value of genius to us is in the veracity of its report.Talent may frolic and juggle; genius realizes and adds. Mankind, in good earnest, have availed so far in understanding themselves and their work, that the foremost watchman on the peak announces his news. It is the truest word ever spoken,and the phrase will be the fittest, most musical, and the unerring voice of the world for that time.All that we call sacred history attests that the birth of a poetis the principal event in chronology. Man, never so often deceived, still watches for the arrival of a brother who can hold him steady to a truth, until he has made it his own. Withwhat joy I begin to read a poem, which I confide in as an inspiration! And now my chains are to be broken; I shallmount above these clouds and opaque airs in which I live- opaque, though they seem transparent-and from the heavenof truth I shall see and comprehend my relations. That will reconcile me to life, and renovate nature, to see trifles animatedby a tendency, and to know what I am doing. Life will nomore be a noise; now I shall see men and women, and knowthe signs by which they may be discerned from fools andsatans. This day shall be better than my birthday: then Ibecame an animal: now I am invited into the science of thereal. Such is the hope, but the fruition is postponed. Oftenerit falls, that this winged man, who will carry me into the heaven, whirls me into mists, then leaps and frisks about withme as it were from cloud to cloud, still affirming that he isbound heavenward; and I, being myself a novice, am slow inperceiving that he does not knowtheway into the heavens, andis merely bent that I should admire his skill to rise, like a fowlor a flying fish, a little way from the ground or the water; butthe all- piercing, all- feeding, and ocular air of heaven, that man shall never inhabit. I tumble down again soon into my oldnooks, and lead the life of exaggerations as before, and havelost 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 thepoet's fidelity to his office of announcement and affirming,namely, by the beauty of things, which becomes a new andhigher beauty, when expressed. Nature offers all her creaturesto him as a picture- language. Being used as a type, a secondwonderful value appears in the object, far better than its oldTHE POET. 15966value, as the carpenter's stretched cord, if you hold your ear close enough, is musical in the breeze. "Things more excellent than every image," says Jamblichus, are expressedthrough 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 thereis no body without its spirit or genius. All form is an effectof character; all condition , of the quality of the life; allharmony, of health; (and, for this reason, a perception ofbeauty should be sympathetic, or proper only to the good).The beautiful rests on the foundations of the necessary. Thesoul makes the body, as the wise Spenser teaches:" So every spirit, as it is more pure,And hath in it the more of heavenly light,So it the fairer body doth procureTo habit in, and it more fairly dight,With cheerful grace and amiable sight.For, of the soul, the body form doth take,For soul is form, and doth the body make."Here we find ourselves, suddenly, not in a critical speculation,but in a holy place, and should go very warily and reverently.We stand before the secret of the world, there where Being passes into Appearance, and Unity into Variety.The Universe is the externization of the soul. Wherever thelife is, that bursts into appearance around it. Our science is sensual, and therefore superficial. The earth andtheheavenlybodies,physics, and chemistry, we sensually treat, as if they were self-existent; but these are the retinue of that Being we have."The mighty heaven," said Proclus, " exhibits, in its transfigurations, clear images of the splendour of intellectualperceptions; being moved in conjunction with the unapparent periods of intellectual natures." Therefore, science always goes abreast with the just elevation of the man, keeping stepwith religion and metaphysics; or, the state of science is an index of our self-knowledge. Since everything in nature answers to a moral power, if any phenomenon remains bruteand dark, it is because the corresponding faculty in the observer is not yet active.No wonder, then, if these waters be so deep, that we hoverover them with a religious regard. The beauty of the fable proves the importance of the sense; to the poet, and to allothers; or, if you please, every man is so far a poet as to besusceptible of these enchantments of nature; for all men have the thoughts whereof the universe is the celebration. I findthat the fascination resides in the symbol. Who loves nature?Who does not? Is it only poets, and men of leisure and160 ESSAY XIII.cultivation, who live with her? No; but also hunters, farmers,grooms, and butchers, though they express their affection in their choice of life, and not in their choice of words. The writer wonders what the coachman or the hunter values inriding, in horses, and dogs. It is not superficial qualities.When you talk with him, he holds these at as slight a rate asyou. His worship is sympathetic; he has no definitions, buthe is commanded in nature, by the living power which he feelsto be there present. No imitation, or playing of these things,would content him; he loves the earnest of the north wind, ofrain, of stone, and wood, and iron. A beauty not explicable is dearer than a beauty which we can see to the end of. It isnature the symbol, nature certifying the supernatural, bodyoverflowed by life, which he worships, with coarse but sincere rites.The inwardness and mystery of this attachment drive men ofevery class to the use of emblems. The schools of poets, andphilosophers, are not more intoxicated with their symbols, thanthe populace with theirs. In our political parties, compute the power of badges and emblems. See the great ball which they roll from Baltimore to Bunker Hill! In the political processions, Lowell goes in a loom, and Lynn in a shoe, and Salem ina ship. Witness the cider-barrel, the log- cabin, the hickorystick, the palmetto, and all the cognizances of party. See the power of national emblems. Some stars, lilies, leopards, acrescent, a lion, an eagle, or other figure, which came into creditGod 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. Thepeople fancy they hate poetry, and they are all poets andmystics!Beyond this universality of the symbolic language, we are apprised of the divineness of this superior use of things, wherebythe world is a temple, whose walls are covered with emblems,pictures, and commandments of the Deity, in this, that there isno fact in nature which does not carry the whole sense of nature; and the distinctions which we make in events, and inaffairs, of low and high, honest and base, disappear whennature is used as a symbol. Thought makes everything fit for use. The vocabulary of an omniscient man would embracewords and images excluded from polite conversation. What would be base, or even obscene, to the obscene, becomes illustrious, spoken in a new connection of thought. The piety of the Hebrew prophets purges their grossness. The circumcisionis an example of the power of poetry to raise the low and offensive. Small and mean things serve as well as greatsymbols. The meaner the type by which a law is expressed,THE POET. 161the more pungent it is, and the more lasting in the memoriesof men; just as we choose the smallest box, or case, in which any needful utensil can be carried. Bare lists of words arefound suggestive, to an imaginative and excited mind; as it is related of Lord Chatham, that he was accustomed to read inBailey's Dictionary, when he was preparing to speak in Parliament. The poorest experience is rich enough for all the purposes of expressing thought. Why covet a knowledge of newfacts? Day and night, house and garden, a few books, a fewactions, serve us as well as would all trades and all spectacles.We are far from having exhausted the significance of the fewsymbols we use. We can come to use them yet with a terriblesimplicity. It does not need that a poem should be long.Every word was once a poem. Every new relation is a newword. Also, we use defects and deformities to a sacred pur- pose, so expressing our sense that the evils of the world aresuch only to the evil eye. In the old mythology, mythologistsobserve, defects are ascribed to divine natures, as lameness toVulcan, blindness to Cupid, and the like, to signify exube- rances.For, as it is dislocation and detachment from the life of God,that makes things ugly, the poet, who re- attaches things tonature and the Whole-re-attaching even artificial things, and violations of nature, to nature, by a deeper insight-disposesvery easily of the most disagreeable facts. Readers of poetrysee the factory-village and the railway, and fancy that the poetry of the landscape is broken up by these; for these worksof art are not yet consecrated in their reading; but the poet sees them fall within the great Order not less than the bee-hive,or the spider's geometrical web. Nature adopts them very fast into her vital circles, and the gliding train of cars she loveslike her own. Besides, in a centred mind, it signifies nothinghow many mechanical inventions you exhibit. Though you add millions, and never so surprising, the fact of mechanics hasnot gained a grain's weight. The spiritual fact remains unalterable, by many or by few particulars; as no mountain isof any appreciable height to break the curve of the sphere. Ashrewd country-boy goes to the city for the first time, and the complacent citizen is not satisfied with his little wonder. It isnot that he does not see all the fine houses, and know that henever saw such before, but he disposes of them as easily as the poet finds place for the railway. The chief value of the newfact, is to enhance the great and constant fact of Life, which can dwarf any and every circ*mstance, 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 nounthe poet is he who can articulate it. For, though life is great,VOL. I. M162 ESSAY XIII.and fascinates, and absorbs-and though all men are intelligentof the symbols, through which it is named-yet they cannotoriginally use them. We are symbols, and inhabit symbols;workmen, work, and tools, words and things, birth and death,all are emblems; but we sympathize with the symbols, and,being infatuated with the economical uses of things, we do notknow that they are thoughts. The poet, by an ulterior intellectual perception, gives them a power which makes their olduse forgotten, and puts eyes, and a tongue, into every dumband inanimate object. He perceives the independence of thethought on the symbol, the stability of the thought, the accidency and fugacity of the symbol. As the eyes of Lyncæuswere said to see through the earth, so the poet turns the worldto glass, and shows us all things in their right series and procession. For, through that better perception, he stands onestep nearer to things, and sees the flowing or metamorphosis;perceives that thought is multiform; that within the form ofevery creature is a force impelling it to ascend into a higherform; 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 syniools of the passage of theworld into the soul of man, to suffer there a change, andreappear a new and higher fact. He uses forms according tothe life, and not according to the form. This is true science.The poet alone knows astronomy, chemistry, vegetation, andanimation, for he does not stop at these facts, but employsthem as signs. He knows why the plain or meadow of space was strown with these flowers we call suns, and moons, andstars; why the great deep is adorned with animals, with men,and gods; for, in every word he speaks he rides on them as the horses of thought.Byvirtue of this science the poet is the Namer, or Language- maker, naming things sometimes after their appearance, sometimes after their essence, and giving to every one its own nameand not another's, thereby rejoicing the intellect, which delightsin detachment or boundary. The poets made all the words,and therefore language is the archives of history, and, if we must say it, a sort of tomb of the muses. For, though theorigin of most of our words is forgotten, each word was at firsta stroke of genius, and obtained currency, because for the moment it symbolized the world to the first speaker and to thehearer. The etymologist finds the deadest word to have beenonce a brilliant picture. Language is fossil poetry. As the limestone of the continent consists of infinite masses of theshells of animalcules, so language is made up of images, ortropes, which now, in their secondary use, have long ceased toTHE POET. 163remind us of their poetic origin. But the poet names thething because he sees it, or comes one step nearer to it than any other. This expression, or naming, is not art, but a second nature, grown out of the first, as a leaf out of a tree. Whatwe call nature, is a certain self-regulated motion, or change;and nature does all things by her own hands, and does notleave another to baptize her, but baptizes herself; and this through the metamorphosis again. I remember that a certain poet described it to me thus:Genius is the activity which repairs the decays of things,whether wholly or partly of a material and finite kind. Nature,through all her kingdoms, insures herself. Nobody cares forplanting the poor fungus: so she shakes down from the gills ofone agaric countless spores, any one of which, being preserved,transmits new billions of spores to-morrow or next day. Thenew agaric of this hour has a chance which the old one had not.This atom of seed is thrown into a new place, not subject to theaccidents which destroyed its parent two rods off. She makesa man; and having brought him to ripe age, she will no longer run the risk of losing this wonder at a blow, but she detachesfrom him a new self, that the kind may be safe from accidentsto which the individual is exposed. So when the soul of thepoet has come to ripeness of thought, she detaches and sends away from it its poems or songs-a fearless, sleepless, deathless progeny, which is not exposed to the accidents of the wearykingdom of time: a fearless, vivacious offspring, clad withwings (such was the virtue of the soul out of which they came) ,which carry them fast and far, and infix them irrecoverably into the hearts of men. These wings are the beauty of thepoet's soul. The songs, thus flying immortal from their mortalparent, are pursued by clamorous flights of censures, which swarm in far greater numbers, and threaten to devour them; butthese last are not winged. At the end of a very short leap they fall plump down, and rot, having received from the souls outof which they came no beautiful wings. But the melodies ofthepoet ascend, and leap, and pierce into the deeps of infinite time.So far the bard taught me, using his freer speech. But naturehas a higher end, in the production of new individuals, thansecurity, namely, ascension, or, the passage of the soul intohigher forms. I knew, in my younger days, the sculptor who made the statue of the youth which stands in the public garden.He was, as I remember, unable to tell directly, what made him happy, or unhappy, but by wonderful indirections he could tell.He rose one day, according to his habit, before the dawn, andsaw the morning break, grand as the eternity out of which it164 ESSAY XIII.came, and, for many days after, he strove to express this tranquillity, and, lo! his chisel had fashioned out of marble theform of a beautiful youth, Phosphorus, whose aspect is such,that, it is said, all persons who look on it become silent. Thepoet also resigns himself to his mood, and that thought whichagitated him is expressed, but alter idem, in a manner totally new. The expression is organic, or, the new type which thingsthemselves take when liberated. As, in the sun, objects painttheir images on the retina of the eye, so they, sharing theaspiration 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 changeinto melodies. Over everything stands its dæmon, or soul, and,as the form of the thing is reflected by the eye, so the soul ofthe thing is reflected by a melody. The sea, the mountainridge, Niagara, and every flower- bed, pre-exist, or super- exist,in pre- cantations, which sail like odours in the air, and whenany man goes by with an ear sufficiently fine, he overhearsthem, and endeavours to write down the notes, without dilutingor depraving them. And herein is the legitimation of criticism,in the mind's faith, that the poems are a corrupt version ofsome text in nature, with which they ought to be made to tally.Arhyme in one of our sonnets should not be less pleasing thanthe iterated nodes of a sea-shell, or the resembling difference ofa group of flowers. The pairing of the birds is an idyll, nottedious as our idylls are; a tempest is a rough ode, withoutfalsehood or rant; a summer, with its harvest sown, reaped,and stored, is an epic song, subordinating how many admirablyexecuted parts. Why should not the symmetry and truth thatmodulate these, glide into our spirits, and we participate the invention of nature?This insight, which expresses itself bywhat 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 sharingthe path or circuit of things through forms, and so making them translucid to others. The path of things is silent. Willthey suffer a speaker to go with them? Aspy they will not suffer; a lover, a poet, is the transcendency of their ownnature-him they will suffer. The condition of true naming,on the poet's part, is his resigning himself to the divine aurawhich breathes through forms, and accompanying that.It is a secret which every intellectual man quickly learns,that, beyond the energy of his possessed and conscious intellect,he is capable of a new energy (as of an intellect doubled onitself) , by abandonment to the nature of things; that, besidehis privacy of power as an individual man, there is a greatpublic power, on which he can draw, by unlocking, at all risks,THE POET. 165his human doors, and suffering the ethereal tides to roll andcirculate through him: then he is caught up into the life of the Universe, his speech is thunder, his thought is law, and hiswords are universally intelligible as the plants and animals.The poet knows that he speaks adequately, then, only when hespeaks somewhat wildly, or, " with the flower of the mind;" not with the intellect, used as an organ, but with the intellect released from all service, and suffered to take its direction fromits celestial life; or, as the ancients were wont to express themselves, not with intellect alone, but with the intellect inebriatedby nectar. As the traveller who has lost his way, throws his reins on his horse's neck, and trusts to the instinct of theanimal to find his road, so must we do with the divine animalwho carries us through this world. For if in any manner wecan stimulate this instinct, newpassages are opened for us intonature, the mind flows into and through things hardest andhighest, 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, orwhatever other procurers of animal exhilaration. All menavail themselves of such means as they can, to add this extraordinary power to their normal powers; and to this end theyprize conversation, music, pictures, sculpture, dancing, theatres,travelling, war, mobs, fires, gaming, politics, or love, or science,or animal intoxication , which are several coarser or finer quasimechanical substitutes for the true nectar, which is the ravishment of the intellect by coming nearer to the fact. These are auxiliaries to the centrifugal tendency of a man, to his passageout into free space, and they help him to escape the custody ofthat body in which he is pent up, and of that jail-yard of individual relations in which he is enclosed. Hence a greatnumber of such as were professionally expressors of Beauty, aspainters, poets, musicians, and actors, have been more thanothers wont to lead a life of pleasure and indulgence; all but the few who received the true nectar; and, as it was a spuriousmode of attaining freedom, as it was an emancipation not intothe heavens, but into the freedom of baser places, they werepunished for that advantage they won, by a dissipation and deterioration. But never can any advantage be taken ofnature by a trick. The spirit of the world, the great calm presence of the Creator, comes not forth to the sorceries ofopium or of wine. The sublime vision comes to the pure and simple soul in a clean and chaste body. That is not aninspiration which we owe to narcotics, but some counterfeit excitement and fury. Milton says, that the lyric poet maydrink wine and live generously, but the epic poet, he who shallsing of the gods, and their descent unto men, must drink water166 ESSAY XIII.out of a wooden bowl. For poetry is not ' Devil's wine, ' butGod'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 faceand sufficing objects of nature, the sun, and moon, the animals,the water, and stones, which should be their toys. So thepoet's habit of living should be set on a key so low, that the common influences should delight him. His cheerfulness shouldbe the gift of the sunlight; the air should suffice for his inspiration, and he should be tipsy with water. That spiritwhich suffices quiet hearts, which seems to come forth to suchfrom 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, withfashion and covetousness, and wilt stimulate thy jaded senses with wine and French coffee, thou shalt find no radiance ofwisdom in the lonely waste of the pinewoods.If the imagination intoxicates the poet, it is not inactive in other men. The metamorphosis excites in the beholder anemotion of joy. The use of symbols has a certain power of emancipation and exhilaration for all men. We seem to betouched by a wand, which makes us dance and run abouthappily, like children. We are like persons who come out ofa cave or cellar into the open air. This is the effect on us oftropes, fables, oracles, and all poetic forms. Poets are thusliberating gods. Men have really got a new sense, and found within their world, another world, or nest of worlds; for, themetamorphosis once seen, we divine that it does not stop. Iwill not now consider how much this makes the charm ofalgebra and the mathematics, which also have their tropes, butit is felt in every definition; as, when Aristotle defines space tobe an immovable vessel, in which things are contained; -or,when Plato defines a line to be a flowing point; or, figure to bea bound of solid; and many the like. What a joyful sense offreedom we have, when Vitruvius announces the old opinion ofartists, that no architect can build any house well, who doesnot knowsomething of anatomy. When Socrates, in Charmides,tells us that the soul is cured of its maladies by certain incantations, and that these incantations are beautiful reasons,from which temperance is generated in souls; when Plato callsthe world an animal; and Timæus affirms that the plants alsoare animals; or affirms a man to be a heavenly tree, growingwith his root, which is his head, upward; and, as GeorgeChapman, following him, writes-"So in our tree of man, whose nervie root Springs in his top; "THE POET. 167when Orpheus speaks of hoariness as " that white flower whichmarks extreme old age; " when Proclus calls the universe thestatue of the intellect; when Chaucer, in his praise of ' Genti- lesse,' compares good blood in mean condition to fire, which,though carried to the darkest house betwixt this and the mountof Caucasus, will yet hold its natural office, and burn as brightas if twenty thousand men did it behold; when John saw, inthe Apocalypse, the ruin of the world through evil, and thestars fall from heaven, as the fig- tree casteth her untimely fruit;when Esop reports the whole catalogue of common dailyrelations through the masquerade of birds and beasts; —take the cheerful hint of the immortality of our essence, and itsversatile habit and escapes, as when the gipsies say of themselves, " it is in vain to hang them, they cannot die."66-weThe poets are thus liberating gods. The ancient British bards had for the title of their order, Those who are freethroughout the world. " They are free, and they make free.An imaginative book renders us much more service at first, by stimulating us through its tropes, than afterward, when wearrive at the precise sense of the author. I think nothing is of any value in books, excepting the transcendental and extraordinary. If a man is inflamed and carried away by histhought, to that degree that he forgets the authors and thepublic, and heeds only this one dream, which holds him like aninsanity, let me read his paper, and you may have all thearguments and histories and criticism. All the value whichattaches to Pythagoras, Paracelsus, Cornelius Agrippa, Cardan,Kepler, Swedenborg, Schelling, Oken, or any other who introduces questionable facts into his cosmogony, as angels, devils,magic, astrology, palmistry, mesmerism, and so on, is the certificate we have of departure from routine, and that here isa new witness. That also is the best success in conversation,the magic of liberty, which puts the world, like a ball, in our hands. How cheap even the liberty then seems; how mean tostudy, when an emotion communicates to the intellect thepower to sap and upheave nature: how great the perspective!nations, times, systems, enter and disappear, like threads intapestry 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 thesnow-storm, perishes in a drift within a few feet of his cottage door, is an emblem of the state of man. On the brink of thewaters of life and truth, we are miserably dying. The inacces- sibleness of every thought but that we are in, is wonderful.What if you come near to it-you are as remote, when you are168 ESSAY XIII.nearest, as when you are farthest. Every thought is also aprison; every heaven is also a prison. Therefore we love thepoet, the inventor, who in any form, whether in an ode, or in an action, or in looks and behaviour, has yielded us a new thought. He unlocks our chains, and admits us to a new scene.This emancipation is dear to all men, and the power to impartit, as it must come from greater depth and scope of thought,is a measure of intellect. Therefore all books of the imagi- nation endure, all which ascend to that truth, that the writersees nature beneath him, and uses it as his exponent. Every verse or sentence, possessing this virtue, will take care of itsown immortality. The religions of the world are the ejacu- lations 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, butread their meaning; neither may he rest in this meaning, buthe makes the same objects exponents of his new thought.Here is the difference betwixt the poet and the mystic, that thelast nails a symbol to one sense, which was a true sense for amoment, but soon becomes old and false. For all symbols arefluxional; all language is vehicular and transitive, and is good,as ferries and horses are, for conveyance, not as farms andhouses are, for homestead. Mysticism consists in the mistakeof an accidental and individual symbol for an universal one.The morning-redness happens to be the favourite meteor tothe eyes of Jacob Behmen, and comes to stand to him for truth and faith; and he believes should stand for the samerealities to every reader. But the first reader prefers asnaturally the symbol of a mother and child, or a gardener and his bulb, or a jeweller polishing a gem. Either of these, orof a myriad more, are equally good to the person to whom theyare significant. Only they must be held lightly, and be verywillingly translated into the equivalent terms which others use.And the mystic must be steadily told-All that you say is just as true without the tedious use of that symbol as with it. Letus have a little algebra, instead of this trite rhetoric-universalsigns, instead of these village symbols-and we shall both begainers. The history of hierarchies seems to show, that allreligious error consisted in making the symbol too stark and solid, and, at last, nothing but an excess of the organ of language.Swedenborg, of all men in the recent ages, stands eminently for the translator of nature into thought. I do not know theman in history to whom things stood so uniformly for words.Before him the metamorphosis continually plays. Everything on which his eye rests, obeys the impulses of moral nature.THE POET. 169The figs become grapes whilst he eats them. When some ofhis 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 hisvisions, seen in heavenly light, appeared like dragons, and seemed in darkness: but, to each other, they appeared asmen, and, when the light from heaven shone into their cabin,they complained of the darkness, and were compelled to shut the windowthat they might see.There was this perception in him, which makes the poet orseer, an object of awe and terror, namely, that the same man,or society of men, may wear one aspect to themselves andtheir companions, and a different aspect to higher intelligences. Certain priests, whom he describes as conversing very learnedly together, appeared to the children, who were at some distance, like dead horses: and many the like misappearances.And instantly the mind inquires, whether these fishes underthe bridge, yonder oxen in the pasture, those dogs in the yard,are immutably fishes, oxen, and dogs, or only so appear to me,and perchance to themselves appear upright men; and whetherappear as a man to all eyes. The Brahmins and Pythagoraspropounded the same question; and if any poet has witnessedthe transformation, he doubtless found it in harmony with various experiences. We have all seen changes as considerablein wheat and caterpillars. He is the poet, and shall draw uswith love and terror, who sees, through the flowing vest, the firm nature, and can declare it.II look in vain for the poet whom I describe. We do not,with sufficient plainness, or sufficient profoundness, address ourselves to life , nor dare we chaunt our own times and socialcirc*mstance. If we filled the day with bravery, we should notshrink from celebrating it. Time and nature yield us manygifts, but not yet the timely man, the new religion, thereconciler, whom all things await. Dante's praise is, that hedared to write his autobiography in colossal cipher, or intouniversality. We have yet had no genius in America, withtyrannous eye, which knew the value of our incomparablematerials, and saw, in the barbarism and materialism of thetimes, another carnival of the same gods whose picture he somuch admires in Homer; then in the middle age; then inCalvinism . Banks and tariffs, the newspaper and caucus,methodism and unitarianism, are flat and dull to dull people,but rest on the same foundations of wonder as the town ofTroy, and the temple of Delphos, and are as swiftly passingaway. Our log-rolling, our stumps and their politics, ourfisheries, our Negroes, and Indians, our boats, and our repu-170 ESSAY XIII.diations, the wrath of rogues, and the pusillanimity of honest men, the northern trade, the southern planting, the western clearing, Oregon, and Texas, are yet unsung, Yet America isa poem in our eyes; its ample geography dazzles the imagi- nation, and it will not wait long for metres. If I have not found that excellent combination of gifts in my countrymenwhich I seek, neither could I aid myself to fix the idea of the poet by reading now and then in Chalmers's collection of fivecenturies of English poets. These are wits, more than poets,though there have been poets among them. But when weadhere to the ideal of the poet, we have our difficulties even with Milton and Homer. Milton is too literary, and Homer too literal and historical.But I am not wise enough for a national criticism, and mustuse the old largeness a little longer, to discharge my errandfrom the muse to the poet concerning his art.Art is the path of the creator to his work. The paths, or methods, are ideal and eternal, though few men ever see them,not the artist himself for years, or for a lifetime, unless he come into the conditions. The painter, the sculptor, thecomposer, the epic rhapsodist, the orator, all partake one desire, namely, to express themselves symmetrically and abundantly, not dwarfishly and fragmentarily. They found or put themselves in certain conditions, as, the painter and sculptorbefore some impressive human figures; the orator, into theassembly of the people; and the others, in such scenes as each has found exciting to his intellect; and each presently feelsthe new desire. He hears a voice, he sees a beckoning. Then he is apprised, with wonder, what herds of dæmons hem himin. He can no more rest; he says, with the old painter, " By God, it is in me, and must go forth of me." He pursues abeauty, half seen, which flies before him. The poet pours outverses in every solitude. Most of the things he says are conventional, no doubt; but by and by he says somethingwhich is original and beautiful. That charms him. He wouldsay nothing else but such things. In our way of talking, wesay, 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 asto you; he would fain hear the like eloquence at length.Once having tasted this immortal ichor, he cannot have enoughof it, and, as an admirable creative power exists in these intellections , it is of the last importance that these things getspoken. What a little of all we know is said! What drops ofall the sea of our science are baled up! and by what accident itis that these are exposed, when so many secrets sleep in nature!Hence the necessity of speech and song; hence these throbsand heart-beatings in the orator, at the door of the assembly,THE POET. 171to the end, namely, that thought may be ejacul*ted as Logos,or Word.Doubt not, O poet, but persist. Say, ' It is in me, and shall out.' Stand there, balked and dumb, stuttering and stammering, hissed and hooted, stand and strive, until, at last,rage draw out of thee that dream-power which every nightshows thee is thine own; a power transcending all limit andprivacy, 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 asexponent of his meaning. Comes he to that power, his geniusis no longer exhaustible. All the creatures, by pairs and by tribes, pour into his mind as into a Noah's ark, to come forthagain to people a new world. This is like the stock of air forour respiration, or for the combustion of our fireplace, not ameasure of gallons, but the entire atmosphere, if wanted.And therefore the rich poets, as Homer, Chaucer, Shakespeareand Raphael, have obviously no limits to their works, except the limits of their lifetime, and resemble a mirror carriedthrough the street, ready to render an image of every created thing.O poet! a new nobility is conferred in groves and pastures,and not in castles, or by the sword-blade, any longer. The conditions are hard, but equal. Thou shalt leave the world,and know the muse only. Thou shalt not know any longerthe times, customs, graces, politics, or opinions of men, but shalt take all from the muse. For the time of towns istolled from the world by funereal chimes, but in nature theuniversal hours are counted by succeeding tribes of animals and plants, and by growth of joy on joy. God wills also that thou abdicate a manifold and duplex life, and that thoube content that others speak for thee. Others shall be thygentlemen, and shall represent all courtesy and worldly lifefor thee; others shall do the great and resounding actions also. Thou shalt lie close hid with nature, and canst not beafforded to the Capitol or the Exchange. The world is full ofrenunciations and apprenticeships, and this is thine; thou must pass for a fool and a churl for a long season. This isthe screen and sheath in which Pan has protected his wellbeloved flower, and thou shalt be known only to thine own,and they shall console thee with tenderest love. And thoushalt not be able to rehearse the names of thy friends in thy verse, for an old shame before the holy ideal. And this is thereward that the ideal shall be real to thee, and the impres- sions of the actual world shall fall like summer rain, copious,but not troublesome, to thy invulnerable essence. Thou shalthave the whole land for thy park and manor, the sea for thy

172 ESSAY XIV.-EXPERIENCE.bath and navigation, without tax and without envy; the woodsand the rivers thou shalt own; and thou shalt possess that wherein others are only tenants and boarders. Thou trueland-lord! sea-lord; air- lord! Wherever snow falls, or waterflows, or birds fly, wherever day and night meet in twilight,wherever the blue heaven is hung by clouds, or sown withstars, wherever are forms with transparent boundaries, whereverare outlets into celestial space, wherever is danger, and awe,and love, there is Beauty, plenteous as rain, shed for thee, andthough thou shouldst walk the world over, thou shalt not be able to find a condition inopportune or ignoble.XIV.-EXPERIENCE.The lords of life, the lords of life, -I saw them pass,In their own guise,Like and unlike,Portly and grim,Use and Surprise,Surface and Dream,Succession swift, and spectral Wrong,Temperament without a tongue,And the inventor of the gameOmnipresent without name; -Some to see, some to be guessed,They marched from east to west:Little man, least of all,Among the legs of his guardians tall,Walked about with puzzled look:-Him by the hand dear Nature took;Dearest Nature, strong and kind,Whispered, " Darling, never mind!To-morrow they will wear another face.The founder thou! these are thy race!"WHEREnot know do wethefindextremes ourselves, and? Inbelieve a seriesthatof itwhich has wenonedo.We wake and find ourselves on a stair: there are stairs belowus, which we seem to have ascended; there are stairs above us,many a one, which go upward and out of sight. But the Geniuswhich, according to the old belief, stands at the door by whichwe enter, and gives us the lethe to drink, that we may tell no tales, mixed the cup too strongly, and we cannot shake off thelethargy now at noonday. Sleep lingers all our lifetime aboutour eyes, as night hovers all day in the boughs of the fir-tree.ILLUSION. 173All things swim and glitter. Our life is not so much threatenedas our perception. Ghostlike we glide through nature, andshould not know our place again. Did our birth fall in somefit of indigence and frugality in nature, that she was so sparing of her fire and so liberal of her earth, that it appears to us thatwe lack the affirmative principle, and thoughwehave health and reason, yet we have no superfluity of spirit for new creation?We have enough to live and bring the year about, but not anounce to impart or to invest. Ah that our Genius were a littlemore of a genius! We are like millers on the lower levels of astream, when the factories above them have exhausted thewater. We too fancy that the upper people must have raised their dams.If any of us knew what we were doing, or where we are going, then when we think we best know! We do not knowto-day whether we are busy or idle. In times when we thought ourselves indolent, we have afterwards discovered, that muchwas accomplished, and much was begun in us. All our daysare so unprofitable while they pass, that ' tis wonderful whereor when we ever got anything of this which we call wisdom,poetry, virtue. We never got it on any dated calendar day.Some heavenly days must have been intercalated somewhere,like those that Hermes won with dice of the Moon, that Osirismight be born. It is said, all martyrdoms looked mean when they were suffered. Every ship is a romantic object, exceptthat we sail in. Embark, and the romance quits our vessel,and hangs on every other sail in the horizon. Our life lookstrivial, and we shun to record it. Men seem to have learnedof the horizon the art of perpetual retreating and reference."Yonder uplands are rich pasturage, and my neighbour has fertile meadow, but myfield," says the querulous farmer, " onlyholds the world together." I quote another man's saying;unluckily, that other withdraws himself in the same way, and quotes me. "Tis the trick of nature thus to degrade to-day; agood deal of buzz, and somewhere a result slipped magically in. Every roof is agreeable to the eye, until it is lifted; thenwe 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 individuals can we countin society? how many actions? how many opinions? So much of our time is preparation, so much is routine, and somuch retrospect, that the pith of each man's genius contracts itself to a very few hours. The history of literature-take the net result of Tiraboschi, Warton, or Schlegel-is a sum of veryfew ideas, and of very few original tales-all the rest beingvariation of these. So, in this great society wide lying aroundus, a critical analysis would find very few spontaneous actions.174 ESSAY XIV. - EXPERIENCE.It is almost all custom and gross sense. There are even fewopinions, and these seem organic in the speakers, and do not disturb the universal necessity.What opium is instilled into all disaster! It shows formidable as we approach it, but there is at last no rough rasping friction, but the most slippery sliding surfaces: we fall soft ona thought: Ate Dea is gentle," Over men's heads walking aloft,With tender feet treading so soft."People grieve and bemoan themselves, but it is not half so bad with them as they say. There are moods in which we courtsuffering, in the hope that here, at least, we shall find reality,sharp peaks and edges of truth. But it turns out to be scenepainting and counterfeit. The only thing grief has taught me,is to know how shallow it is. That, like all the rest, playsabout the surface, and never introduces me into the reality,for contact with which, we would even pay the costly price of sons and lovers. Was it Boscovich who found out that bodiesnever come in contact? Well, souls never touch their objects.An innavigable sea washes with silent waves between us and the things we aim at and converse with. Grief too will makeus idealists. In the death of my son, now more than two years ago, I seem to have lost a beautiful estate-no more. Icannot get it nearer to me. If to-morrow I should be informedof the bankruptcy of my principal debtors, the loss of myproperty would be a great inconvenience to me, perhaps, for many years; but it would leave me as it found me-neither better nor worse. So is it with this calamity: it does nottouch me; something which I fancied was a part of me, which could not be torn away without tearing me, nor enlargedwithout enriching me, falls off from me, and leaves no scar.It was caducous. I grieve that grief can teach me nothing,nor carry me one step into real nature. The Indian who waslaid under a curse, that the wind should not blow on him, norwater flow to him, nor fire burn him, is a type of us all. The dearest events are summer-rain, and we the Para coats thatshed every drop. Nothing is left us now but death, We lookto that with a grim satisfaction, saying, there at least is reality that will not dodge us.I take this evanescence and lubricity of all objects, which lets them slip through our fingers then when we clutch hardest,to be the most unhandsome part of our condition . Nature does not like to be observed, and likes that we should be her foolsand playmates. We may have the sphere for our cricketball, but not a berry for our philosophy. Direct strokes shenever gave us power to make; all our blows glance, all ourTEMPERAMENT. 175hits are accidents. Our relations to each other are obliqueand casual.ItDream delivers us to dream, and there is no end to illusion.Life is a train of moods like a string of beads, and, as we passthrough them, they prove to be many- coloured lenses whichpaint the world their own hue, and each shows only what lies in its focus. From the mountain you see the mountain. Weanimate what we can, and we see only what we animate.Nature and books belong to the eyes that see them.depends on the mood of the man, whether he shall see thesunset or the fine poem. There are always sunsets, and thereis always genius; but only a few hours so serene that we can relish nature or criticism. The more or less depends onstructure or temperament. Temperament is the iron wireon which the beads are strung. Of what use is fortune or talent to a cold and defective nature? Who cares whatsensibility or discrimination a man has at some time shown,if he falls asleep in his chair? or if he laugh and giggle? orif he apologise? or is infected with egotism? or thinks of hisdollar? or cannot go by food? or has gotten a child in hisboyhood? Of what use is genius, if the organ is too con- vex or too concave, and cannot find a focal distance within theactual horizon of human life? Of what use, if the brain is toocold or too hot, and the man does not care enough for results,to stimulate him to experiment, and hold him up in it? or ifthe web is too finely woven, too irritable by pleasure and pain,so that life stagnates from too much reception, without due outlet? Of what use to make heroic vows of amendment, ifthe same old law-breaker is to keep them? What cheer canthe religious sentiment yield, when that is suspected to besecretly dependent on the seasons of the year, and the state ofthe blood? I knew a witty physician who found the creed inthe biliary duct, and used to affirm that if there was disease in the liver, the man became a Calvinist, and if that organ wassound, he became a Unitarian. Very mortifying is the reluctant experience that some unfriendly excess or imbecility neutralizes the promise of genius. We see young men whoowe us a new world, so readily and lavishly they promise, but they never acquit the debt; they die young and dodge theaccount or if they live, they lose themselves in the crowd.Temperament also enters fully into the system of illusions,and shuts us in a prison of glass which we cannot see.is an optical illusion about every person we meet. In truth,they are all creatures of given temperament, which will appear in a given character, whose boundaries they will never pass:but we look at them, they seem alive, and we presume there is

There176 ESSAY XIV. -EXPERIENCE.impulse in them. In the moment it seems impulse; in the year, in the lifetime, it turns out to be a certain uniform tunewhich the revolving barrel of the music-box must play. Men resist the conclusion in the morning, but adopt it as theevening wears on, that temper prevails over everything of time, place, and condition, and is inconsumable in the flames of religion. Some modifications the moral sentiment avails toimpose, but the individual texture holds its dominion, if not tobias the moral judgments, yet to fix the measure of activity andof enjoyment.I thus express the law as it is read from the platform ofordinary life, but must not leave it without noticing the capital exception. For temperament is a power which no man willingly hears any one praise but himself. On theplatform of physics, we cannot resist the contracting in- fluences of so- called science. Temperament puts all divinityto rout. I know the mental proclivity of physicians. I hearthe chuckle of the phrenologists. Theoretic kidnappers and slave-drivers, they esteem each man the victim of another, who winds him round his finger by knowing the law of his being,and by such cheap signboards as the colour of his beard, or the slope of his occiput, reads the inventory of his fortunesand character. The grossest ignorance does not disgust likethis impudent knowingness. The physicians say, they are not materialists; but they are:-Spirit is matter reduced to an extreme thinness: O so thin!-But the definition of spiritualshould be, that which is its own evidence. What notions dothey attach to love! what to religion! One would notwillingly pronounce these words in their hearing, and give them the occasion to profane them. I saw a gracious gentleman who adapts his conversation to the form of the head ofthe man he talks with! I had fancied that the value of life lay in its inscrutable possibilities; in the fact that I never know,in addressing myself to a new individual, what may befall me.I carry the keys of my castle in my hand, ready to throwthem at the feet of mylord, whenever and in what disguisesoever he shall appear. I know he is in the neighbourhood hidden among vagabonds. Shall I preclude my future, bytaking a high seat, and kindly adapting my conversation tothe shape of heads? When I come to that, the doctors shall buy me for a cent.- " But, sir, medical history; the reportto the Institute; the proven facts!"-I distrust the facts andthe inferences. Temperament is the veto or limitation- powerin the constitution, very justly applied to restrain an opposite excess in the constitution, but absurdly offered as a bar tooriginal equity. When virtue is in presence, all subordinatepowers sleep. On its own level, or in view of nature, temper-SUCCESSION. 177ament is final. I see not, if one be once caught in this trap oso- called sciences, any escape for the man from the links of thechain of physical necessity. Given such an embryo, such ahistory must follow. On this platform, one lives in a sty ofsensualism, and would soon come to suicide. But it is impos- sible that the creative power should exclude itself. Intoevery intelligence there is a door which is never closed,through which the creator passes. The intellect, seeker ofabsolute truth, or the heart, lover of absolute good, intervenesfor our succour, and at one whisper of these high powers, weawake from ineffectual struggles with this nightmare. Wehurl 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 successionof moods or objects, Gladly we would anchor, but the an- chorage is quicksand. This onward trick of nature is toostrong for us: Pero si muove. When, at night, I look at themoon and stars, I seem stationary, and they to hurry. Our love of the real draws us to permanence, but health of bodyconsists in circulation, and sanity of mind in variety or facilityof association. We need change of objects. Dedication to onethought is quickly odious. We house with the insane, and must humour them; then conversation dies out. Once I tooksuch delight in Montaigne, that I thought I should not needany otherbook; before that, in Shakespeare; then in Plutarch;then in Plotinus; at one time in Bacon; afterwards in Goethe;even in Bettine; but now I turn the pages of either of them languidly, whilst I still cherish their genius. So with pictures;each will bear an emphasis of attention once, which it cannotretain, though we fain would continue to be pleased in that manner. How strongly I have felt of pictures, that when youhave seen one well, you must take your leave of it; you shallnever see it again. I have had good lessons from pictures,which I have since seen without emotion or remark. A deduction must be made from the opinion, which even the wise express on a new book or occurrence. Their opinion gives metidings of their mood, and some vague guess at the new fact,but is nowise to be trusted as the lasting relation between thatintellect and that thing. The child asks, " Mamma, why don'tI like the story as well as when you told it me yesterday?"Alas, child, it is even so with the oldest cherubim of knowledge.But will it answer thy question to say, Because thou wert born to a whole, and this story is a particular? The reason of thepain this discovery causes us ( and we make it late in respect to works of art and intellect) , is the plaint of tragedy whichmurmurs from it in regard to persons, to friendship and love.VOL. I. N178 ESSAY XIV. - EXPERIENCE.That immobility and absence of elasticity which we find inthe arts, we find with more pain in the artist. There is no power of expansion in men. Our friends early appear to us asrepresentatives of certain ideas, which they never pass orexceed. They stand on the brink of the ocean of thought and power, but they never take the single step that would bringthem there. A man is like a bit of Labrador spar, which hasno lustre as you turn it in your hand, until you come to aparticular 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 menconsists in adroitly keeping themselves where and when that turn shall be oftenest to be practised. We do what we must,and call it by the best names we can, and would fain have the praise of having intended the result which ensues. I cannotrecall 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 symmetrywe seek. The parti - coloured wheel must revolve very fast toappear white. Something is learned too by conversing withso much folly and defect. In fine, whoever loses, we arealways of the gaining party. Divinity is behind our failuresand follies also. The plays of children are nonsense, but very educative nonsense. So it is with the largest and solemnestthings, with commerce, government, church, marriage, and sowith the history of every man's bread, and the ways by whichhe is to come by it. Like a bird which alights nowhere, buthops perpetually from bough to bough, is the Power whichabides 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? Whathelp from thought? Life is not dialectics. We, I think, in these times, have had lessons enough ofthe futility of criticism .Our young people have thought and written much on labourand reform, and for all that they have written, neither theworld nor themselves have got on a step. Intellectual tastingof life will not supersede muscular activity. If a man shouldconsider the nicety of the passage of a piece of bread down his throat, he would starve. At Education- Farm, the noblesttheory of life sat on the noblest figures of young men andmaidens, quite powerless and melancholy. It would not rake or pitch a ton of hay; it would not rub down a horse; and themen and maidens it left pale and hungry. A political oratorwittily compared our party promises to western roads, whichopened stately enough, with planted trees on either side, toSURFACE. 1796666tempt the traveller, but soon became narrow and narrower, and ended in a squirrel-track, and ran up a tree. So does culturewith us; it ends in headache. Unspeakably sad and barren does life look to those, who a fewmonths ago were dazzled with the splendour of the promise of the times. There is now nolonger any right course of action, nor any self-devotion leftamong the Iranis." Objections and criticism we have had ourfill of. There are objections to every course of life and action,and the practical wisdom infers an indifferency, from theomnipresence of objection. The whole frame of things preachesindifferency. Do not craze yourself with thinking, but goabout your business anywhere. Life is not intellectual orcritical, but sturdy. Its chief good is for well-mixed people who can enjoy what they find, without question. Nature hatespeeping, and our mothers speak her very sense when they say,Children, eat your victuals, and say no more of it. " To fillthe hour-that is happiness; to fill the hour, and leave nocrevice for a repentance or an approval. We live amid surfaces,and the true art of life is to skate well on them. Under theoldest mouldiest conventions, a man of native force prospersjust as well as in the newest world, and that by skill ofhandling and treatment. He can take hold anywhere. Life itself is a mixture of power and form, and will not bear the least excess of either. To finish the moment, to find thejourney's end in every step of the road, to live the greatestnumber of good hours, is wisdom. It is not the part of men,but of fanatics, or of mathematicians, if you will, to say, that,the shortness of life considered, it is not worth caring whetherfor so short a duration we were sprawling in want, or sittinghigh. Since our office is with moments, let us husband them.Five minutes of to-day are worth as much to me, as five minutes in the next millennium. Let us be poised, and wise,and our own, to- day. Let us treat the men and women well:treat them as if they were real: perhaps they are. Men livein their fancy, like drunkards whose hands are too soft and tremulous for successful labour. It is a tempest of fancies,and the only ballast I know, is a respect to the present hour.Without any shadow of doubt, amidst this vertigo of showsand politics, I settle myself ever the firmer in the creed, thatwe should not postpone and refer and wish, but do broadjustice where we are, by whomsoever we deal with, accepting our actual companions and circ*mstances, however humble orodious, as the mystic officials to whom the universe has dele- gated its whole pleasure for us. If these are mean andmalignant, their contentment, which is the last victory of justice, is a more satisfying echo to the heart, than the voice ofpoets and the casual sympathy of admirable persons. I think180 ESSAY XIV. -EXPERIENCE.that however a thoughtful man may suffer from the defectsand absurdities of his company, he cannot without affectationdeny to any set of men and women, a sensibility to extraor- dinary merit. The coarse and frivolous have an instinct ofsuperiority, if they have not a sympathy, and honour it intheir blind capricious way with sincere homage.The fine young people despise life; but in me, and in such aswith me are free from dyspepsia, and to whom a day is a soundand solid good, it is a great excess of politeness to lookscornful and to cry for company. I am grown by sympathy alittle eager and sentimental, but leave me alone, and I shouldrelish every hour and what it brought me, the potluck of theday, as heartily as the oldest gossip in the bar- room. I am thankful for small mercies, I compared notes with one of myfriends who expects everything of the universe, and is disappointed when anything is less than the best, and I found thatI begin at the other extreme, expecting nothing, and am alwaysfull of thanks for moderate goods. I accept the clangour andjangle of contrary tendencies. I find my account in sots andbores also, They give a reality to the circumjacent picture,which such a vanishing meteorous appearance can ill spare.In the morning I awake, and find the old world, wife, babes, andmother, Concord and Boston, the dear old spiritual world, andeven the dear old devil not far off. If we will take the good wefind, asking no questions, we shall have heaping measures.The great gifts are not got by analysis. Everything good ison the highway. The middle region of our being is the temperate zone, We may climb into the thin and cold realmof pure geometry and lifeless science, or sink into that ofsensation. Between these extremes is the equator of life, ofthought, of spirit, of poetry-a narrow belt. Moreover, inpopular experience, everything good is on the highway. Acollector peeps into all the picture- shops of Europe, for alandscape of Poussin, a crayon- sketch of Salvator; but theTransfiguration, the Last Judgment, the Communion of St. Jerome, and what are as transcendent as these, are on thewalls of the Vatican, the Uffizii, or the Louvre, where everyfootman may see them; to say nothing of nature's pictures inevery street, of sunsets and sunrises every day, and the sculpture of the human body never absent. A collector recently bought at public auction, in London, for one hundred andfifty-seven guineas, an autograph of Shakespeare: but for nothing a schoolboy can read Hamlet, and can detect secretsof highest concernment yet unpublished therein. I think Iwill never read any but the commonest books-the Bible,Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, and Milton. Then we are impatient of so public a life and planet, and run hither and thitherSURFACE. 181for 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 theexclusion reaches them also; reaches the climbing, flying,gliding, feathered and four- footed man. Fox and woodchuck,hawk and snipe, and bittern, when nearly seen, have no more root in the deep world than man, and are just such superficialtenants of the globe. Then the new molecular philosophy shows astronomical interspaces betwixt atom and atom, shows that the world is all outside: it has no inside.The mid-world is best. Nature, as we know her, is no saint.The lights of the church, the ascetics, Gentoos and corn- eaters,she does not distinguish by any favour. She comes eating anddrinking and sinning. Her darlings, the great, the strong, the beautiful, are not children of our law, do not come out of theSunday School, nor weigh their food, nor punctually keep the commandments. If we will be strong with her strength, wemust not harbour such disconsolate consciences, borrowed too from the consciences of other nations. We must set up thestrong present tense against all the rumours of wrath, past or to come. So many things are unsettled which it is of the firstimportance to settle-and, pending their settlement, we will doas we do. Whilst the debate goes forward on the equity of commerce, and will not be closed for a century or two, Newand Old England may keep shop. Law of copyright andinternational copyright is to be discussed, and, in the interim,we will sell our books for the most we can. Expediency ofliterature, reason of literature, lawfulness of writing down athought, 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 aline. Right to hold land, right of property, is disputed, and the conventions convene, and before the vote is taken, dig awayin your garden, and spend your earnings as a waif or godsend to all serene and beautiful purposes. Life itself is a bubbleand a scepticism, and a sleep within a sleep. Grant it, and asmuch more as they will-but thou, God's darling! heed thyprivate dream: thou wilt not be missed in the scorning andscepticism: there are enough of them: stay there in thycloset, and toil, until the rest are agreed what to do about it .Thy sickness, they say, and thy puny habit, require that thoudo 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, whichholds thee dear, shall be the better.Human life is made up of the two elements, power and form,182 ESSAY XIV.-EXPERIENCE.and the proportion must be invariably kept, if we would have it sweet and sound. Each of these elements in excess makes amischief as hurtful as its defect. Everything runs to excess:every good quality is noxious, if unmixed, and, to carry thedanger to the edge of ruin, nature causes each man's peculiarityto superabound. Here, among the farms, we adduce thescholars as examples of this treachery. They are nature's victims of expression. You who see the artist, the orator, the poet, too near, and find their life no more excellent than thatof mechanics or farmers, and themselves victims of partiality,very hollow and haggard, and pronounce them failures-notheroes, but quacks-conclude very reasonably, that these artsare not for man, but are disease. Yet nature will not bear you out. Irresistible nature made men such, and makes legionsmore of such, every day. You love the boy reading in a book,gazing at a drawing, or a cast: yet what are these millionswho 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 howinnocently he began to be an artist, he perceives that naturejoined with his enemy. A man is a golden impossibility. The line he must walk is a hair's breadth. The wise through excessof 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, tothe perfect calculation of the kingdom of known cause and effect. In the street and in the newspapers, life appears soplain a business, that manly resolution and adherence tothe multiplication - table through all weathers, will insure success. But ah! presently comes a day, or is it only a halfhour, with its angel- whispering-which discomfits the con- clusions 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 this understanding,would be quickly bankrupt. Power keeps quite another roadthan the turnpikes of choice and will, namely, the subterranean and invisible tunnels and channels of life. It is ridiculousthat we are diplomatists, and doctors, and considerate people;there are no dupes like these. Life is a series of surprises,and would not be worth taking or keeping, if it were not.God delights to isolate us every day, and hide from us the past and the future. We would look about us, but with grandpoliteness he draws down before us an impenetrable screen ofpurest sky, and another behind us of purest sky. You willSURPRISE. 183not remember,' he seems to say, ' and you will not expect.'All good conversation, manners, and action, come from aspontaneity which forgets usages, and makes the momentgreat. Nature hates calculators; her methods are saltatoryand impulsive. Man lives by pulses; our organic movements are such; and the chemical and ethereal agents are undulatory and alternate; and the mind goes antagonizing on, and never prospers but by fits. We thrive by casualties. Our chiefexperiences have been casual. The most attractive class ofpeople are those who are powerful obliquely, and not by thedirect stroke: men of genius, but not yet accredited: one getsthe 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 asurprise; and the moral sentiment is well called " the newness, " for it is never other; as newto the oldest intelligence as to the young child-"the kingdom that cometh withoutobservation." In like manner, for practical success, theremust not be too much design. A man will not be observedin doing that which he can do best. There is a certain magicabout his properest action, which stupefies your powers ofobservation, so that though it is done before you, you wist notof it. The art of life has a pudency, and will not be exposed.Every man is an impossibility, until he is born; everything impossible, until we see a success. The ardours of pietyagree at last with the coldest scepticism-that nothing is ofus or our works-that all is of God. Nature will not spare us the smallest leaf of laurel. All writing comes by the graceof God, and all doing and having. I would gladly be moral,and keep due metes and bounds, which I dearly love, andallow the most to the will of man; but I have set my heart onhonesty in this chapter, and I can see nothing at last, insuccess or failure, than more or less of vital force supplied from the Eternal. The results of life are uncalculated anduncalculable. The years teach much which the days neverknow. The persons who compose our company, converse, and come and go, and design and execute many things, and some- what comes of it all, but an unlooked-for result. The individual is always mistaken. He designed many things, anddrew in other persons as coadjutors, quarrelled with some orall, blundered much, and something is done; all are a littleadvanced, but the individual is always mistaken. It turnsout somewhat new, and very unlike what he promised him- self.The ancients, struck with this irreducibleness of the elementsof human life to calculation, exalted Chance into a divinity,184 ESSAY XIV. -EXPERIENCE.but that is to stay too long at the spark-which glitters trulyat one point-but the universe is warm with the latency of thesame fire. The miracle of life which will not be expounded,but will remain a miracle, introduces a new element. In thegrowth of the embryo, Sir Everard Home, I think, noticed that the evolution was not from one central point, but co-active from three or more points. Life has no memory. That whichproceeds in succession might be remembered, but that whichis co-existent, or ejacul*ted from a deeper cause, as yet farfrom being conscious, knows not its own tendency. So it is with us, now sceptical, or without unity, because immersed informs and effects all seeming to be of equal yet hostile value,and now religious, whilst in the reception of spiritual law.Bear with these distractions, with this co- etaneous growth ofthe parts, they will one day be members, and obey one will.On that one will, on that secret cause, they nail our attentionand hope. Life is hereby melted into an expectation or areligion. Underneath the inharmonious and trivial particulars, is a musical perfection, the Ideal journeying always with us, the heaven without rent or seam. Do but observethe mode of our illumination. When I converse with a profound mind, or if at any time being alone I have good thoughts, I do not at once arrive at satisfactions, as when,being thirsty, I drink water, or go to the fire, being cold: no!but I am at first apprised of myvicinity to a new and excellentregion of life. By persisting to read or to think, this regiongives further sign of itself, as it were in flashes of light, in sudden discoveries of its profound beauty and repose, as if theclouds that covered it parted at intervals, and showed theapproaching 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 thisrealm of thought is felt as initial, and promises a sequel. Ido not make it; I arrive there, and behold what was therealready. I make! O no! I clap my hands in infantine joy and amazement, before the first opening to me of this augustmagnificence, old with the love and homage of innumerable ages, young with the life of life, the sunbright Mecca of the desert. And what a future it opens! I feel a new heartbeating with the love of the new beauty. I am ready to die out of nature, and be born again into this new yet unap- proachable America I have found in the West." Since neither now nor yesterday beganThese thoughts, which have been ever, nor yet can A man be found who their first entrance knew. "If I have described life as a flux of moods, I must now add,REALITY. 185that there is that in us which changes not, and which ranks all sensations and states of mind. The consciousness in eachman is a sliding scale which identifies him now with the FirstCause, and now with the flesh of his body; life above life, ininfinite degrees. The sentiment from which it sprung determines the dignity of any deed, and the question ever is, not,what you have done or forborne, but, at whose command you have done or forborne it.Fortune, Minerva, Muse, Holy Ghost-these are quaint names, too narrow to cover this unbounded substance. Thebaffled intellect must still kneel before this cause, which refusesto be named-ineffable cause, which every fine genius hasessayed to represent by some emphatic symbol, as, Thales bywater, Anaximenes by air, Anaxagoras by (Novs) thought,Zoroaster by fire, Jesus and the moderns by love: and the metaphor of each has become a national religion. TheChinese Mencius has not been the least successful in hisgeneralization. " I fully understand language,” he said, “ andnourish well my vast- flowing vigour." " I beg to ask what you call vast-flowing vigour?"-said his companion. " Theexplanation," replied Mencius, " is difficult. This vigour issupremely great, and in the highest degree unbending.Nourish it correctly, and do it no injury, and it will fill up the vacancy between heaven and earth. This vigour accordswith and assists justice and reason, and leaves no hunger."-In our more correct writing, we give to this generalization thename of Being, and thereby confess that we have arrived asfar as we can go. Suffice it for the joy of the universe, that we have not arrived at a wall, but at interminable oceans. Ourlife seems not present, so much as prospective; not for theaffairs on which it is wasted, but as a hint of this vast-flowing vigour. Most of life seems to be mere advertisem*nt offaculty: information is given us not to sell ourselves cheap;that we are very great. So, in particulars, our greatness is always in a tendency or direction, not in an action. It is forus to believe in the rule, not in the exception.The noble arethus known from the ignoble. So in accepting the leading ofthe sentiments, it is not what we believe concerning theimmortality of the soul, or the like, but the universal impulse to believe, that is the material circ*mstance, and is theprincipal fact in the history of the globe. Shall we describethis cause as that which works directly? The spirit is not helpless or needful of mediate organs. It has plentifulpowers and direct effects. I am explained without explaining,I am felt without acting, and where I am not. Therefore alljust persons are satisfied with their own praise. They refuse to explain themselves, and are content that new actions should186 ESSAY XIV.-EXPERIENCE.do them that office. They believe that we communicate without speech, and above speech, and that no right action of ours is quite unaffecting to our friends, at whatever distance; forthe influence of action is not to be measured by miles. Whyshould I fret myself, because a circ*mstance has occurred,which hinders my presence where I was expected? If I am not at the meeting, my presence where I am, should be asuseful to the commonwealth of friendship and wisdom, aswould be my presence in that place. I exert the same quality of power in all places. Thus journeys the mighty Ideal beforeus; it never was known to fall into the rear. No man evercame to an experience which was satiating, but his good is tidings of a better. Onward and onward! In liberatedmoments, we know that a new picture of life and duty isalready possible; the elements already exist in many mindsaround you, of a doctrine of life which shall transcend any written record we have. The new statement will comprisethe scepticisms, as well as the faiths of society, and out ofunbeliefs a creed shall be formed. For scepticisms are not gratuitous or lawless, but are limitations of the affirmativestatement, and the new philosophy must take them in, andmake affirmations outside of them, just as much as it must include the oldest beliefs.It is very unhappy, but too late to be helped, the discoverywe have made, that we exist. That discovery is called theFall 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 anddistorting lenses which we are, or of computing the amount of their errors. Perhaps these subject- lenses have a creativepower; perhaps there are no objects. Once we lived in whatwe saw; now, the rapaciousness of this new power, which threatens to absorb all things, engages us. Nature, art,persons, letters, religions -objects, successively tumble in,and God is but one of its ideas. Nature and literature aresubjective phenomena; every evil and every good thing is ashadow which we cast. The street is full of humiliations tothe proud. As the fop contrived to dress his bailiffs in hislivery, and make them wait on his guests at table, so the chagrins which the bad heart gives off as bubbles, at oncetake form as ladies and gentlemen in the street, shopmen orbar-keepers in hotels, and threaten or insult whatever is theatenable and insultable in us. 'Tis the same with ouridolatries. People forget that it is the eye which makes thehorizon, and the rounding mind's eye which makes this orthat man a type or representative of humanity with the nameSUBJECT OR THE ONE. 187of hero or saint. Jesus the " providential man, ” is a goodman on whom many people are agreed that these optical lawsshall take effect. By love on one part, and by forbearance to press objection on the other part, it is for a time settled, thatwe will look at him in the centre of the horizon, and ascribe to him the properties that will attach to any man so seen. But!the longest love or aversion has a speedy term. The great and crescive self, rooted in absolute nature, supplants allrelative existence, and ruins the kingdom of mortal friendshipand love. Marriage (in what is called the spiritual world) isimpossible, because of the inequality between every subjectand every object. The subject is the receiver of Godhead, and at everycomparison must feel his being enhanced bythat crypticmight. Though not in energy, yet by presence, this maga- zine of substance cannot be otherwise than felt: nor can anyforce of intellect attribute to the object the proper deity whichsleeps or wakes for ever in every subject. Never can love makeconsciousness and ascription equal in force. There will be thesame gulf between every me and thee, as between the originaland the picture. The universe is the bride of the soul. All private sympathy is partial. Two human beings are likeglobes, 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 particularunion lasts, the more energy of appetency the parts not in union acquire.Life will be imaged, but cannot be divided nor doubled.Any invasion of its unity would be chaos. The soul is nottwin-born, but the only begotten, and though revealing itself as child in time, child in appearance, is of a fatal and universalpower, admitting no co-life. Every day, every act betrays the ill - concealed deity. We believe in ourselves, as we do notbelieve in others. We permit all things to ourselves, and that which we call sin in others, is experiment for us. It is aninstance of our faith in ourselves, that men never speak of crime as lightly as they think: or, every man thinks a latitude safefor himself, which is nowise to be indulged to another. The act looks very differently on the inside, and on the outside; inits quality, and in its consequences. Murder in the murderer is no such ruinous thought as poets and romancers will haveit; it does not unsettle him, or fright him from his ordinarynotice of trifles: it is an act quite easy to be contemplated, butin its sequel, it turns out to be a horrible jangle and confounding of all relations. Especially the crimes that springfrom love, seem right and fair from the actor's point of view,but, when acted, are found destructive of society. No man at last believes that he can be lost, nor that the crime in him is as188 ESSAY XIV.-EXPERIENCE.black as in the felon. Because the intellect qualifies in ourown case the moral judgments. For there is no crime to theintellect. That is antinomian 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 to absolutes, praywho does not steal? Saints are sad, because they behold sin,(even when they speculate, ) from the point of view of the conscience, and not of the intellect; a confusion of thought. Sinseen from the thought, is a diminution or less: seen from theconscience or will, it is pravity or bad. The intellect names it shade, absence of light, and no essence. The conscience mustfeel it as essence, essential evil. This it is not: it has anobjective existence, but no subjective.Thus inevitably does the universe wear our colour, and every object fall successively into the subject itself. The subjectexists, the subject enlarges; all things sooner or later fall intoplace. As I am, so I see; use what language we will, we cannever say anything but what we are; Hermes, Cadmus,Columbus, Newton, Buonaparte, are the mind's ministers.Instead of feeling a poverty when we encounter a great man,let us treat the new comer like a travelling geologist, who passes through our estate, and shows us good slate, or limestone, or anthracite, in our brush pasture. The partial action of each strong mind in one direction, is a telescope for theobjects on which it is pointed. But every other part of know- ledge, is to be pushed to the same extravagance, ere the soulattains her due sphericity. Do you see that kitten chasing soprettily her own tail? If you could look with her eyes, you might see her surrounded with hundreds of figures performingcomplex dramas, with tragic and comic issues, long conversa- tions, many characters, many ups and downs of fate-andmeantime it is only puss and her tail. How long before ourmasquerade will end its noise of tambourines, laughter, andshouting, and we shall find it was a solitary performance?—Asubject and an object-it takes so much to make the galvanie circuit complete, but magnitude adds nothing. What importsit 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 thesedevelopments, and will find a way to punish the chemist, whopublishes in the parlour the secrets of the laboratory. And wecannot say too little of our constitutional necessity of seeing things under private aspects, or saturated with our humours.And yet is the God the native of these bleak rocks. That needEXPERIENCE. 189makes in morals the capital virtue of self-trust. We must holdhard to this poverty, however scandalous, and by more vigorous self-recoveries, after the sallies of action, possess our axis morefirmly. The life of truth is cold, and so far mournful; but it is not the slave of tears, contritions, and perturbations. Itdoes not attempt another's work, nor adopt another's facts. Itis 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 againstall their denials, that they also have a key to theirs. Asympathetic person is placed in the dilemma of a swimmeramong drowning men, who all catch at him, and if he give somuch as a leg or a finger, they will drown him. They wish to be saved from the mischiefs of their vices, but not from theirvices. Charity would be wasted on this poor waiting on thesymptoms. A wise and hardy physician will say, Come out of that, as the first condition of advice.In this our talking America, we are ruined by our good nature and listening on all sides, This compliance takes away thepower of being greatly useful. A man should not be able tolook other than directly and forthright. A pre-occupied attention is the only answer to the importunate frivolity of other people: an attention, and to an aim which makes their wantsfrivolous. This is a divine answer, and leaves no appeal, andno hard thoughts, In Flaxman's drawing of the Eumenides ofEschylus, Orestes supplicates Apollo, whilst the Furies sleep on the threshold. The face ofthe god expresses a shade of regretand 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 asksfor his interest in turmoils of the earth, into which hisnature cannot enter. And the Eumenides there lying expresspictorially this disparity. The god is surcharged with his divine destiny.Illusion, Temperament, Succession, Surface, Surprise, Reality,Subjectiveness-these are threads on the loom of time, these are the lords of life. I dare not assume to give their order, butI name them as I find them in myway, I knowbetter than to claim any completeness for my picture. I am a fragment, and this is a fragment of me. I can very confidently announce oneor another law, which throws itself into relief and form, but Iam too young yet by some ages to compile a code. I gossipfor my hour concerning the eternal politics. I have seen many fair pictures not in vain. A wonderful time I have lived in.I am not the novice I was fourteen, nor yet seven years ago,Let who will ask, where is the fruit? I find a private fruit190 ESSAY XIV.sufficient. This is a fruit-that I should not ask for a rasheffect from meditations, counsels, and the hiving of truths. Ishould feel it pitiful to demand a result on this town andcounty, 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 amand I have: but I do not get, and when I have fancied I had gotten anything, I found I did not. I worship with wonderthe great Fortune. My reception has been so large, that I am not annoyed by receiving this or that superabundantly. I sayto the Genius, if he will pardon the proverb, In for a mill, infor a million. When I receive a new gift, I do not macerate my body to make the account square, for, if I should die, Icould not make the account square. The benefit overran themerit 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 seemsto me an apostasy. In good earnest, I amwilling to spare thismost unnecessary deal of doing. Life wears to me a visionary face. Hardest, roughest action is visionary also. It is but achoice between soft and turbulent dreams. People disparageknowing and the intellectual life, and urge doing. I am verycontent with knowing, if only I could know. That is an augustentertainment, and would suffice me a great while. To knowa little, would be worth the expense of this world. I hearalways the law of Adrastia, " that every soul which had ac- quired any truth, should be safe from harm until anotherperiod. "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, andshall observe it. One day, I shall know the value and lawof this discrepance. But I have not found that much was gained by manipular attempts to realize the world of thought.Many eager persons successively make an experiment in this way, and make themselves ridiculous. They acquire democratic manners, they foam at the mouth, they hate and deny.Worse, I observe, that, in the history of mankind, there isnever a solitary example of success, -taking their own tests of success. I say this polemically, or in reply to the inquiry,why not realize your world? But far be from me thedespair 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 the last. We must be very suspicious of the deceptions of the element of time.It takes a good deal of time to eat or to sleep, or to earna hundred dollars, and a very little time to entertain a hopeand an insight which becomes the light of our life. We dressCHARACTER. 191our garden, eat our dinners, discuss the household with our wives, and these things make no impression, are forgotten next week; but in the solitude to which every man is always returning, he has a sanity and revelations, which in his passage into new worlds he will carry with him. Never mind the ridicule,never mind the defeat: up again, old heart! -it seems to say,-there is victory yet for all justice; and the true romance which the world exists to realize, will be the transformation ofgenius into practical power.IXV. —CHARACTER.The sun set; but set not his hope:Stars rose; his faith was earlier up:Fixed on the enormous galaxy,Deeper and older seemed his eye:And matched his sufferance sublimeThe taciturnity of time.He spoke, and words more soft than rain Brought the Age of Gold again:His action won such reverence sweet,As hid all measure of the feat.Work of his handHe nor commends nor grieves;Pleads for itself the fact;As unrepenting Nature leaves Her every act.HAVE read that those who listened to Lord Chatham feltthat there was something finer in the man, than anything which he said. It has been complained of our brilliant English historian of the French Revolution, that when he has told allhis facts about Mirabeau, they do not justify his estimate of his genius. The Gracchi, Agis, Cleomenes, and others ofPlutarch's heroes, do not in the record of facts equal their ownfame. Sir Philip Sidney, the Earl of Essex, Sir Walter Raleigh,are men of great figure, and of few deeds. We cannot find thesmallest part of the personal weight of Washington, in thenarrative of his exploits. The authority of the name of Schilleris too great for his books. This inequality of the reputation tothe works or the anecdotes, is not accounted for by saying that the reverberation is longer than the thunder- clap; but somewhat resided in these men which begot an expectation thatoutran all their performance. The largest part of their powerwas latent. This is that which we call Character, -a reservedforce which acts directly by presence, and without means. It192 ESSAY XV.66is conceived of as a certain undemonstrable force, a Familiaror Genius, by whose impulses the man is guided, but whosecounsels he cannot impart; which is company for him, so thatsuch men are often solitary, or if they chance to be social, donot need society, but can entertain themselves very well alone.The purest literary talent appears at one time great, at another time small, but character is of a stellar and undiminishablegreatness. What others effect by talent or by eloquence, this man accomplishes by some magnetism. Half his strength heput not forth." His victories are by demonstration of superiority, and not by crossing of bayonets. He conquers, because his arrival alters the face of affairs. 666 O Iole, howdid you knowthat Hercules was a god?" " Because," answered Iole, " I wascontent the moment my eyes fell on him. When I beheld Theseus, I desired that I might see him offer battle, or at leastguide his horses in the chariot-race; but Hercules did not waitfor a contest; heconquered whether he stood, or walked, or sat, orwhatever thing he did." Man, ordinarily a pendant to events,only half attached, and that awkwardly, to the world he lives in, in these examples appears to share the life of things, and to be an expression of the same laws which control the tidesand the sun, numbers and quantities.66But to use a more modest illustration, and nearer home, Iobserve, that in our political elections, where this element, if it appears at all, can only occur in its coarsest form, we sufficiently understand its incomparable rate. The people knowthat they need in their representative much more than talent,namely, the power to make his talent trusted. They cannotcome at their ends by sending to Congress a learned, acute,and fluent speaker, if he be not one, who, before he wasappointed by the people to represent them, was appointed byAlmighty God to stand for a fact, invincibly persuaded of that fact in himself, -so that the most confident and themost violent persons learn that here is resistance on whichboth impudence and terror are wasted, namely, faith in afact. The men who carry their points do not need to inquireof their constituents what they should say, but are themselvesthe country which they represent: nowhere are its emotionsor opinions so instant and true as in them; nowhere so purefrom a selfish infusion. The constituency at home hearkens to their words, watches the colour of their cheek, and therein,as in a glass, dresses its own. Our public assemblies arepretty good tests of manly force. Our frank countrymen of the west and south have a taste for character, and like to knowwhether the New Englander is a substantial man, or whetherthe hand can pass through him.The same motive force appears in trade. There are geniusesCHARACTER. 193in 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. Seehim, and you will know as easily why he succeeds, as, if you see Napoleon, you would comprehend his fortune. In the newobjects we recognize the old game, the habit of fronting the fact, and not dealing with it at second hand, through the perceptions of somebody else. Nature seems to authorize trade, assoon as you see the natural merchant, who appears not so much a private agent, as her factor and Minister of Commerce. Hisnatural probity combines with his insight into the fabric of society, to put him above tricks, and he communicates to all hisownfaith, that contracts are of no private interpretation. Thehabit of his mind is a reference to standards of natural equityand public advantage; and he inspires respect, and the wish to deal with him, both for the quiet spirit of honour which attendshim, and for the intellectual pastime which the spectacle of somuch ability affords. This immensely stretched trade, which makes the capes of the Southern Ocean his wharves, and the Atlantic Sea his familiar port, centres in his brain only; and nobody in the universe can make his place good. In his parlour, Isee very well that he has been at hard work this morning, with that knitted brow, and that settled humour, which all his desire to be courteous cannot shake off. I see plainly how many firmacts have been done; how many valiant noes have this daybeen spoken, when others would have uttered ruinous yeas. Isee, with the pride of art, and skill of masterly arithmetic and power of remote combination, the consciousness of being anagent and playfellow of the original laws of the world. He, too,believes that none can supply him, and that a man must be born to trade, or he cannot learn it.This virtue draws the mind more, when it appears in actionto ends not so mixed. It works with most energy in the smallest companies and in private relations. In all cases, it is anextraordinary and incomputable agent. The excess of physicalstrength is paralyzed by it. Higher natures overpower lowerones by affecting them with a certain sleep. The faculties arelocked up, and offer no resistance. Perhaps that is the universal law. When the high cannot bring up the low to itself itbenumbs it, as man charms down the resistance of the loweranimals. Men exert on each other a similar occult power.How often has the influence of a true master realized all thetales of magic! A river of command seemed to run down fromhis eyes into all those who beheld him, a torrent of strongsad light, like an Ohio or Danube, which pervaded them with histhoughts, and coloured all events with the hue of his mind."What means did you employ?" was the question asked of the VOL. I.194 ESSAY XV.wife of Concini, in regard to her treatment of Mary of Medici;and the answer was, "Only that influence which every strong mind has over a weak one. Cannot Cæsar in irons shuffle offthe irons, and transfer them to the person of Hippo or Thrasothe turnkey? Is an iron handcuff so immutable a bond?Suppose a slaver on the coast of Guinea should take on boarda gang of negroes, which should contain persons of the stampof Toussaint L'Ouverture, or, let us fancy, under these swarthy masks he has a gang of Washingtons in chains. When they arrive at Cuba, will the relative order of the ship's company be the same? Is there nothing but rope and iron? Is there nolove, no reverence? Is there never a glimpse of right in apoor slave-captain's mind; and cannot these be supposedavailable to break, or elude, or in any manner overmatch, thetension 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'spresence, 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, accordingto the purity of this element in them. The will of the pure runs down from them into other natures, as water runs downfrom a higher into a lower vessel. This natural force is nomore to be withstood than any other natural force.We candrive a stone upward for a moment into the air, but it is yet true that all stones will for ever fall; and whatever instancescan be quoted of unpunished theft, or of a lie which somebodycredited, justice must prevail, and it is the privilege of truth to make itself believed. Character is this moral order seenthrough the medium of an individual nature. An individualis an encloser. Time and space, liberty and necessity, truthand thought, are left at large no longer. Now, the universe isa close or pound. All things exist in the man, tinged with themanners of his soul. With what quality is in him he infuses all nature that he can reach; nor does he tend to lose himselfin vastness, but, at how long a curve soever, all his regards return into his own good at last. He animates all he can, andhe sees only what he animates. He encloses the world, as thepatriot does his country, as a material basis for his character,and a theatre for action. A healthy soul stands united withthe Just and the True, as the magnet arranges itself with thepole, so that he stands to all beholders like a transparentobject betwixt them and the sun, and whoso journeys towardsthe sun, journeys towards that person. He is thus the medium of the highest influence to all who are not on the same level.Thus, men of character are the conscience of the society to which they belong.CHARACTER. 195The natural measure of this power is the resistance of circ*mstances. Impure men consider life as it is reflected inopinions, events, and persons. They cannot see the action,until it is done. Yet its moral element pre- existed in theactor, and its quality as right or wrong, it was easy to predict.Everything in nature is bipolar, or has a positive and negativepole. There is a male and a female, a spirit and a fact, anorth and a south. Spirit is the positive, the event is thenegative. Will is the north, action the south pole. Charactermay be ranked as having its natural place in the north. Itshares the magnetic currents of the system. The feeble soulsare drawn to the south or negative pole. They look at theprofit 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 worshipevents; secure to them a fact, a connection, a certain chain of circ*mstances, and they will ask no more. The hero sees thatthe event is ancillary: it must follow him. A given order ofevents has no power to secure to him the satisfaction whichthe imagination attaches to it; the soul of goodness escapesfrom any set of circ*mstances, whilst prosperity belongs to acertain mind, and will introduce that power and victory whichis its natural fruit, into any order of events. No change ofcirc*mstances can repair a defect of character. We boast ouremancipation from many superstitions; but if we have brokenany idols, it is through a transfer of the idolatry. What have I gained, that I no longer immolate a bull to Jove, or to Neptune, or a mouse to Hecate; that I do not tremble beforethe Eumenides, or the Catholic Purgatory, or the CalvinisticJudgment-day, -if I quake at opinion, the public opinion, as we call it; or at the threat of assault, or contumely, or badneighbours, or poverty, or mutilation, or at the rumour ofrevolution, or of murder? If I quake, what matters it what Iquake at? Our proper vice takes form in one or another shape,according to the sex, age, or temperament of the person, and,if we are capable of fear, will readily find terrors. The covetousness or the malignity which saddens me, when I ascribe it to society, is my own. I am always environed by myself. Onthe other part, rectitude is a perpetual victory, celebrated notby cries of joy, but by serenity, which is joy fixed or habitual.It is disgraceful to fly to events for confirmation of our truthand worth. The capitalist does not run every hour to thebroker, to coin his advantages into current money of therealm; he is satisfied to read in the quotations of the market,that his stocks have risen. The same transport which theoccurrence of the best events in the best order would occasion196 ESSAY XV.me, I must learn to taste purer in the perception that my position is every hour meliorated, and does already commandthose events I desire. That exultation is only to be checkedby the foresight of an order of things so excellent, as to throw all our prosperities into the deepest shade.The face which character wears to me is self- sufficingness.I revere the person who is riches; so that I cannot think ofbim as alone, or poor, or exiled, or unhappy, or a client, but as perpetual patron, benefactor, and beatified man. Character iscentrality, the impossibility of being displaced or overset. Aman should give us a sense of mass. Society is frivolous, and shreds its day into scraps, its conversation into ceremonies and escapes. But if I go to see an ingenious man, I shall think myself poorly entertained if he give me nimble pieces of benevolence and etiquette; rather he shall stand stoutly in his place, and let me apprehend, if it were only his resistance;know that I have encountered a new and positive quality; -great refreshment for both of us. It is much, that he does not accept the conventional opinions and practices. That non- conformity will remain a goad and remembrancer, and every inquirer will have to dispose of him, in the first place. There is nothing real or useful that is not a seat of war. Our houses ring with laughter, and personal and critical gossip, but it helps little. But the uncivil, unavailable man, who is aproblem 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 illuminatingthe 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. Foun- tains, the self-moved, the absorbed, the commander because he is commanded, the assured, the primary, -they are good; for these announce the instant presence of supreme power.Our action should rest mathematically on our substance. Innature, there are no false valuations. A pound of water in theocean-tempest has no more gravity than in a midsummer pond.All things work exactly according to their quality, and according to their quantity; attempt nothing they cannot do, exceptman only. He has pretension: he wishes and attempts things beyond his force. I read in a book of English memoirs," Mr. Fox (afterwards Lord Holland) said, he must have theTreasury; he had served up to it, and would have it."-Xeno-CHARACTER. 197phon and his Ten Thousand were quite equal to what they attempted, and did it; so equal, that it was not suspected to bea grand and inimitable exploit. Yet there stands that factunrepeated, a high-water-mark in military history. Manyhave 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 andaccomplished person who undertook a practical reform, yet Iwas never able to find in him the enterprise of love he took inhand. 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. Hadthere been something latent in the man, a terrible undemonstrated genius agitating and embarrassing his demeanour, we had watched for its advent. It is not enough that the intellectshould see the evils, and their remedy. We shall still postponeour existence, nor take the ground to which we are entitled,whilst it is only a thought, and not a spirit, that incites us.We have not yet served up to it.These are properties of life, and another trait is the notice of incessant growth. Men should be intelligent and earnest.They must also make us feel that they have a controlling happy future opening before them, whose early twilights already kindle in the passing hour. The hero is misconceived and misreported: he cannot therefore wait to unravel any man's blunders: he is again on his road, 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 relation to him, by adding to your wealth. Newactions are the only apologies and explana- tions of old ones, which the noble can bear to offer or to receive. If your friend has displeased you, you shall not sit down to consider it, for he has already lost all memory of the passage, and has doubled his power to serve you, and, ere youcan rise up again, will burden you with blessings.We have no pleasure in thinking of a benevolence that isonly measured by its works. Love is inexhaustible, and if itsestate is wasted, its granary emptied, still cheers and enriches,and the man, though he sleep, seems to purify the air, and hishouse to adorn the landscape and strengthen the laws. Peoplealways recognize this difference. We know who is benevolentby quite other means than the amount of subscription to soup societies. It is only low merits that can be enumerated.Fear, when your friends say to you what you have done well,and say it through; but when they stand with uncertain timidlooks of respect and half-dislike, and must suspend their198 ESSAY XV.judgment for years to come, you may begin to hope. Those who live to the future must always appear selfish to those who live to the present. Therefore it was droll in the good Riemer,who has written memoirs of Goethe, to make out a list of hisdonations and good deeds, as, so many hundred thalers given to Stilling, to Hegel, to Tischbein; a lucrative place found for Professor Voss, a post under the Grand Duke for Herder, apension for Meyer, two professors recommended to foreign universities, &c. , &c. The longest list of specifications of benefit would look very short. A man is a poor creature, if he is to be measured so . For, all these, of course, are exceptions;and the rule and hodiernal life of a good man is benefaction.The true charity of Goethe is to be inferred from the accounthe gave Dr. Eckermann of the way in which he had spent his fortune. "Each bon- mot of mine has cost a purse of gold.Half a million of my own money, the fortune I inherited, my salary, and the large income derived from my writings for fifty years back, have been expended to instruct me in what Inow know. I have besides seen," &c.I own it is but poor chat and gossip to go to enumeratetraits of this simple and rapid power, and we are painting thelightning 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 atdiscretion. How death- cold is literary genius before this fireof life! These are the touches that reanimate my heavy soul,and give it eyes to pierce the dark of nature. I find, where Ithought myself poor, there was I most rich. Thence comes anew intellectual exaltation, to be again rebuked by some newexhibition of character. Strange alternation of attraction andrepulsion! Character repudiates intellect, yet excites it! andcharacter passes into thought, is published so, and then is ashamed before new flashes of moral worth.Character is nature in the highest form. It is of no use toape it, or to contend with it. Somewhat is possible of resistance, and of persistence, and of creation, to this power, which will foil all emulation.This masterpiece is best where no hands but nature's havebeen laid on it. Care is taken that the greatly-destined shall slip up into life in the shade, with no thousand- eyed Athens towatch and blazon every new thought, every blushing emotionof young genius. Two persons lately, -very young children of the most high God, -have given me occasion for thought.When I explored the source of their sanctity, and charm forthe imagination, it seemed as if each answered, From mynonconformity: I never listened to your people's law, or to what theycall their gospel, and wasted my time. I was content with theCHARACTER. 199simple rural poverty of my own: hence this sweetness: my work never reminds you of that; -is pure of that.' Audnature advertises me in such persons, that, in democratic America, she will not be democratized. How cloistered andconstitutionally sequestered from the market and from scan- dal! It was only this morning, that I sent away some wildflowers 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 firstlines of written prose and verse of a nation. How captivatingis their devotion to their favourite books, whether schylus,Dante, Shakespeare, or Scott, as feeling that they have a stakein that book: who touches that, touches them;-and especiallythe total solitude of the critic, the Patmos of thought fromwhich he writes, in unconsciousness of any eyes that shall ever read this writing. Could they dream on still, as angels, andnot wake to comparisons, and to be flattered!Yet somenatures are too good to be spoiled by praise, and wherever thevein of thought reaches down into the profound, there is no danger from vanity. Solemn friends will warn them of thedanger of the head's being turned by the flourish of trumpets,but they can afford to smile. I remember the indignation of an eloquent Methodist at the kind admonitions of a Doctor ofDivinity, My friend, a man can neither be praised nor insulted.' But forgive the counsels; they are very natural. Iremember the thought which occurred to me when some ingenious and spiritual foreigners came to America, was, Have you been victimized in being brought hither? -or, prior to that,answer me this, ' Are you victimizable?'As I have said, nature keeps these sovereignties in her ownhands, and however pertly our sermons and disciplines would divide some share of credit, and teach that the laws fashionthe citizen, she goes her own gait, and puts the wisest in the wrong. She makes very light of gospels and prophets, as onewho has a great many more to produce, and no excess of time to spare on any one. There is a class of men, individuals ofwhich appear at long intervals, so eminently endowed with insight and virtue, that they have been unanimously saluted as divine, and who seem to be an accumulation of that power weconsider. Divine persons are character born, or, to borrow aphrase from Napoleon, they are victory organized. They are usually received with ill-will, because they are new, and becausethey set a bound to the exaggeration that has been made ofthe personality of the last divine person.Nature neverrhymes her children, nor makes two men alike. When we seea great man, we fancy a resemblance to some historical person,and predict the sequel of his character and fortune, a result200 ESSAY XV.which he is sure to disappoint. None will ever solve the problem of his character according to our prejudice, but only in his own high unprecedented way. Character wants room;must not be crowded on by persons, nor be judged from glimpses got in the press of affairs or on few occasions. Itneeds perspective, as a great building. It may not, probablydoes not, form relations rapidly; and we should not requirerash explanation, either on the popular ethics, or on our own,of its action,I look on Sculpture as history. I do not think the Apolloand the Jove impossible in flesh and blood. Every trait which the artist recorded in stone, he had seen in life, and better thanhis copy. We have seen many counterfeits, but we are born believers in great men. How easily we read in old books,when men were few, of the smallest action of the patriarchs.We require that a man should be so large and columnar in thelandscape, that it should deserve to be recorded, that he arose,and girded up his loins, and departed to such a place. Themost credible pictures are those of majestic men who prevailed .at their entrance, and convinced the senses; as happened tothe eastern magian who was sent to test the merits of Zertusht or Zoroaster. When the Yunani sage arrived at Balkh, thePersians tell us, Gushtasp appointed a day on which theMobeds of every country should assemble, and a golden chair was placed for the Yunani sage. Then the beloved of Yezdam,the prophet Zertusht, advanced into the midst of the assembly.The Yunani sage, on seeing that chief, said, " This form andthis gait cannot lie, and nothing but truth can proceed fromthem." Plato said, it was impossible not to believe in the children of the gods, " though they should speak without probable or necessary arguments." I should think myself very unhappy in my associates, if I could not credit the best things in history. "John Bradshaw," says Milton, " appears like aconsul, 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 information, that oneman should know heaven, as the Chinese say, than that somany men should know the world. "The virtuous prince confronts the gods, without any misgiving. He waits a hundred ages till a sage comes, and does not doubt. He who confrontsthe gods, without any misgiving, knows heaven; he who waitsa hundred ages until a sage comes, without doubting, knows men. Hence the virtuous prince moves, and for ages showsempire the way.” But there is no need to seek remoteexamples. He is a dull observer whose experience has nottaught him the reality and force of magic, as well as of che-CHARACTER. 201mistry. The coldest precisian cannot go abroad withoutencountering inexplicable influences. One man fastens an eyeon him, and the graves of the memory render up their dead;the secrets that make him wretched either to keep or to betray, must be yielded; -another, and he cannot speak, and the bones of his body seem to lose their cartilages; the entranceof a friend adds grace, boldness, and eloquence to him; and there are persons, he cannot choose but remember, who gave atranscendent 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 thesceptic, who doubts the power and the furniture of man, is inthat possibility of joyful intercourse with persons, which makes the faith and practice of all reasonable men. I knownothing which life has to offer so satisfying as the profoundgood understanding, which can subsist, after much exchange of good offices, between two virtuous men, each of whom issure of himself, and sure of his friend . It is a happinesswhich postpones all other gratifications, and makes politics,and commerce, and churches, cheap. For, when men shall meet as they ought, each a benefactor, a shower of stars,clothed with thoughts, with deeds, with accomplishments, it should be the festival of nature which all things announce. Ofsuch friendship, love in the sexes is the first symbol, as allother things are symbols of love. Those relations to the bestmen, which, at one time, we reckoned the romances of youth,become, in the progress of the character, the most solid enjoy- ment.If it were possible to live in right relations with men!—ifwe could abstain from asking anything of them, from askingtheir praise, or help, or pity, and content us with compelling them through the virtue of the eldest laws! Could we notdeal with a few persons-with one person-after the unwrittenstatutes, and make an experiment of their efficacy? Could wenot pay our friend the compliment of truth, of silence, of for- bearing? Need we be so eager to seek him? If we are related, we shall meet. It was a tradition of the ancient world,that no metamorphosis could hide a god from a god; and there is a Greek verse which runs,"The gods are to each other not unknown."Friends also follow the laws of divine necessity; they gravitateto each other, and cannot otherwise:-"When each the other shall avoid,Shall each by each be most enjoyed."202 ESSAY XV.Their relation is not made, but allowed. The gods must seat themselves without seneschal in our Olympus, and as they caninstal themselves by seniority divine. Society is spoiled, ifpains are taken, if the associates are brought a mile to meet.And if it be not society, it is a mischievous, low, degradingjangle, though made up of the best. All the greatness of eachis kept back, and every foible in painful activity, as if the Olympians should meet to exchange snuff- boxes.Life goes headlong. We chase some flying scheme, or we are hunted by some fear or command behind us. But ifsuddenly we encounter a friend, we pause; our heat andhurry 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 thehope of the heart. Our beatitude waits for the fulfilment ofthese two in one. The ages are opening this moral force. Allforce is the shadow or symbol of that. Poetry is joyful and strong, as it draws its inspiration thence. Men write theirnames on the world, as they are filled with this. History has been mean; our nations have been mobs; we have never seena man that divine form we do not yet know, but only thedream and prophecy of such: we do not know the majestic manners which belong to him, which appease and exalt thebeholder. We shall one day see that the most private is themost public energy, that quality atones for quantity, andgrandeur of character acts in the dark, and succours them who never saw it. What greatness has yet appeared, isbeginnings and encouragements to us in this direction. Thehistory of those gods and saints which the world has written,and then worshipped, are documents of character. The ageshave exulted in the manners of a youth who owed nothing tofortune, and who was hanged at the Tyburn of his nation, who,bythe pure quality of his nature, shed an epic splendour around the facts of his death, which has transfigured every particularinto an universal symbol for the eyes of mankind.Thisgreat defeat is hitherto our highest fact. But the mindrequires a victory to the senses, a force of character whichwill convert judge, jury, soldier, and king; which will rule animal and mineral virtues, and blend with the courses of sap,of rivers, of winds, of stars, and of moral agents.If we cannot attain at a bound to these grandeurs, at least,let us do them homage. In society, high advantages are setdown to the possessor, as disadvantages. It requires the more wariness in our private estimates. I do not forgive inmy friends the failure to know a fine character, and to entertain it with thankful hospitality. When, at last, that whichMANNERS. 203we have always longed for, is arrived, and shines on us with glad rays out of that far celestial land, then to be coarse, thento be critical, and treat such a visitant with the jabber andsuspicion of the streets, argues a vulgarity that seems to shutthe doors of heaven. This is confusion, this the right insanity,when the soul no longer knows its own, nor where its allegiance, its religion, are due. Is there any religion but this, toknow that, wherever in the wide desert of being, the holysentiment we cherish has opened into a flower, it blooms for me? if none sees it, I see it; I am aware, if I alone, of thegreatness of the fact. Whilst it blooms, I will keep sabbathor holy time, and suspend my gloom, and my folly and jokes.Nature is indulged by the presence of this guest. There are many eyes that can detect and honour the prudent and household virtues; there are many that can discern Genius on his starry track, though the mob is incapable; but when thatlove which is all- suffering, all- abstaining, all- aspiring, which has vowed to itself that it will be a wretch and also a fool inthis world, sooner than soil its white hands by any compliances, comes into our streets and houses-only the pureand aspiring can know its face, and the only compliment they can pay it, is to own it.XVI.-MANNERS.How near to good is what is fair!Which we no sooner see,But with the lines and outward air,Our senses taken be.Again yourselves compose,And now put all the aptness on Of Figure, that Proportion Or Colour can disclose;That if those silent arts were lost,Design and Picture, they might boast From you a newer ground,Instructed by the heightening sense Of dignity and reverence In their true motions found.BEN JONSON.ALF the world, it is said, knows not how the other half ring saw Feejeegetting their dinner off human bones; and they are said to eat their own wives and children. The husbandry of themodern inhabitants of Gournou (west of old Thebes) is philo-204 ESSAY XVI.sophical to a fault. To set up their housekeeping, nothing isrequisite but two or three earthen pots, a stone to grind meal,and a mat which is the bed. The house, namely, a tomb, isready without rent or taxes. No rain can pass through the roof, and there is no door, for there is no want of one, as thereis nothing to lose. If the house do not please them, they walk out and enter another, as there are several hundreds at their command. "It is somewhat singular, " adds Belzoni, towhom we owe this account, " to talk of happiness amongpeople who live in sepulchres, among the corpses and rags of an ancient nation which they know nothing of." In thedeserts of Borgoo, the rock-Tibboos still dwell in caves, likecliff- swallows, and the language of these negroes is comparedby their neighbours to the shrieking of bats, and to the whistling of birds. Again, the Bornoos have no propernames; individuals are called after their height, thickness,or other accidental quality, and have nicknames merely. Butthe salt, the dates, the ivory, and the gold, for which thesehorrible regions are visited, find their way into countries,where the purchaser and consumer can hardly be ranked in one race with these cannibals and man- stealers; countrieswhere man serves himself with metals, wood, stone, glass,gum, cotton, silk, and wool; honours himself with architecture; writes laws, and contrives to execute his will throughthe hands of many nations; and, especially, establishes aselect society, running through all the countries of intelligentmen, a self- constituted aristocracy, or fraternity of the best,which, without written law or exact usage of any kind, perpetuates itself, colonizes every new-planted island, and adopts and makes its own whatever personal beauty or extraordinary native endowment anywhere appears.What fact more conspicuous in modern history, than thecreation of the gentleman? Chivalry is that, and loyalty is that, and, in English literature, half the drama, and all thenovels, from Sir Philp Sidney to Sir Walter Scott, paint thisfigure. The word gentleman, which, like the word Christian,must hereafter characterize the present and the few precedingcenturies, by the importance attached to it, is a homage topersonal and incommunicable properties. Frivolous and fantastic additions have got associated with the name, but thesteady interest of mankind in it must be attributed to thevaluable properties which it designates. An element whichunites all the most forcible persons of every country; makesthem intelligible and agreeable to each other, and is somewhat so precise, that it is at once felt if an individual lack themasonic sign, cannot be any casual product, but must be anaverige result of the character and faculties universally foundMANNERS. 205in men. It seems a certain permanent average; as the atmosphere is a permanent composition, whilst so many gases arecombined only to be decompounded. Comme il faut, is the Frenchman's description of good society, as we must be. It isa spontaneous fruit of talents and feelings of precisely that class who have most vigour, who take the lead in the world ofthis hour, and, though far from pure, far from constitutingthe gladdest and highest tone of human feeling, is as good asthe whole society permits it to be. It is made of the spirit,more than of the talent of men, and is a compound result, intowhich every great force enters as an ingredient, namely,virtue, wit, beauty, wealth, and power.There is something equivocal in all the words in use toexpress the excellence of manners and social cultivation,because the quantities are fluxional, and the last effect is assumed by the senses as the cause. The word gentleman hasnot any correlative abstract to express the quality. Gentilityis mean, and gentilesse is obsolete. But we must keep alivein the vernacular, the distinction between fashion, a word of narrow and often sinister meaning, and the heroic characterwhich the gentleman imports. The usual words, however,must be respected: they will be found to contain the root of the matter. The point of distinction in all this class ofnames, 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. Theresult is now in question, although our words intimate well enough the popular feeling, that the appearance supposes asubstance. The gentleman is a man of truth, lord of his ownactions, and expressing that lordship in his behaviour, not inany manner dependent and servile either on persons, or opinions, or possessions. Beyond this fact of truth and realforce, the word denotes good- nature or benevolence: manhoodfirst, and then gentleness. The popular notion certainly adds a condition of ease and fortune; but that is a natural resultof personal force and love, that they should possess anddispense the goods of the world. In times of violence. everyeminent person must fall in with many opportunities to approve his stoutness and worth; therefore every man's namethat emerged at all from the mass in the feudal ages, rattlesin our ear like a flourish of trumpets. But personal forcenever goes out of fashion. That is still paramount to-day,and, in the moving crowd of good society, the men of valourand reality are known, and rise to their natural place. The competition is transferred from war to politics and trade, butthe personal force appears readily enough in these new arenas.Power first, or no leading class, In politics and in trade,206 ESSAY XVI.bruisers and pirates are of better promise than talkers and clerks. God knows that all sorts of gentlemen knock at the door; but whenever used in strictness, and with any emphasis,the name will be found to point at original energy. Itdescribes a man standing in his own right, and working afteruntaught methods. In a good lord, there must first be a goodanimal, at least to the extent of yielding the incomparable advantage of animal spirits. The ruling class must havemore, but they must have these, giving in every company the sense of power, which makes things easy to be done whichdaunt the wise. The society of the energetic class, in theirfriendly and festive meetings, is full of courage, and of attempts, which intimidate the pale scholar. The couragewhich girls exhibit is like a battle of Lundy's Lane, or a seafight. The intellect relies on memory to make some suppliesto face these extemporaneous squadrons. But memory is abase mendicant with basket and badge, in the presence ofthese sudden masters. The rulers of society must be up tothe work of the world, and equal to their versatile office: menof the right Cæsarian pattern, who have great range ofaffinity. I am far from believing the timid maxim of Lord Falkland (" that for ceremony there must go two to it; sincea bold fellow will go through the cunningest forms ") , and am of opinion that the gentleman is the bold fellow whose formsare not to be broken through; and only that plenteous natureis rightful master, which is the complement of whatever personit converses with. My gentleman gives the law where he is;he will outpray saints in chapel, outgeneral veterans in the field, and outshine all courtesy in the hall. He is goodcompany for pirates, and good with academicians; so that itis useless to fortify yourself against him; he has the privateentrance to all minds, and I could as easily exclude myself, ashim. The famous gentlemen of Asia and Europe have been ofthis strong type: Saladin, Sapor, the Cid, Julius Cæsar, Scipio,Alexander, Pericles, and the lordliest personages. They satvery carelessly in their chairs, and were too excellent themselves, to value any condition at a high rate.A plentiful fortune is reckoned necessary, in the popularjudgment, to the completion of this man of the world: and it is a material deputy which walks through the dance which thefirst has led. Money is not essential, but this wide affinity is,which transcends the habits of clique and caste, and makesitself felt by men of all classes. If the aristocrat is only valid in fashionable circles, and not with truckmen, he will never bea leader in fashion; and if the man of the people cannot speakon equal terms with the gentleman, so that the gentleman shallperceive that he is already really of his own order, he is not to beMANNERS. 207feared. Diogenes, Socrates, and Epaminondas, are gentlemen of the best blood, who have chosen the condition of poverty,when that of wealth was equally open to them. I use these oldnames, but the men I speak of are mycontemporaries. Fortunewill not supply to every generation one of these well- appointedknights, but every collection of men furnishes some example ofthe class and the politics of this country, and the trade ofevery town, are controlled by these hardy and irresponsible doers, who have invention to take the lead, and a broadsympathy which puts them in fellowship with crowds, and makes their action popular.

The manners of this class are observed and caught withdevotion by men of taste. The association of these masters with each other, and with men intelligent of their merits, ismutually agreeable and stimulating. The good forms, thehappiest expressions of each, are repeated and adopted. By swift consent, everything superfluous is dropped, everythinggraceful is renewed. Fine manners showthemselves formidableto the uncultivated man. They are a subtler science of defence to parry and intimidate; but once matched by the skill of theother party, they drop the point of the sword-points and fences disappear, and the youth finds himself in a more transparent atmosphere, wherein life is a less troublesome game, andnot a misunderstanding rises between the players. Manners aim to facilitate life, to get rid of impediments, and bring theman pure to energize. They aid our dealing and conversation,as a railway aids travelling, by getting rid of all avoidableobstructions of the road, and leaving nothing to be conquered but pure space. These forms very soon become fixed, and afine sense of propriety is cultivated with the more heed, that itbecomes a badge of social and civil distinctions. Thus growsup Fashion, an equivocal semblance, the most puissant, the most fantastic and frivolous, the most feared and followed, and which morals and violence assault in vain.There exists a strict relation between the class ofpower, andthe exclusive and polished circles. The last are always filledor filling from the first. The strong men usually give someallowance even to the petulances of fashion, for that affinitythey find in it. Napoleon, child of the revolution, destroyer ofthe old noblesse, never ceased to court the Faubourg St.Germain: doubtless with the feeling, that fashion is a homageto men of his stamp. Fashion, though in a strange way,represents all manly virtue. It is virtue gone to seed: it is akind of posthumous honour. It does not often caress thegreat, but the children of the great: it is a hall of the Past.It usually sets its face against the great of this hour. Greatmen are not commonly in its halls: they are absent in the208 ESSAY XVI.field: they are working, not triumphing. Fashion is made up of their children; of those, who, through the value and virtueof somebody, have acquired lustre to their name, marks ofdistinction, means of cultivation and generosity, and, in their physical organization, a certain health and excellence, whichsecures to them, if not the highest power to work, yet highpower to enjoy. The class of power, the working heroes, theCortez, the Nelson, the Napoleon, see that this is the festivity and permanent celebration of such as they; that fashion isfunded talent; is Mexico, Marengo, and Trafalgar beaten outthin; that the brilliant names of fashion run back to just such busy names as their own, fifty or sixty years ago. They are the sowers, their sons shall be the reapers, and their sons, intheordinary course of things, must yield the possession of the harvest to new competitors with keener eyes and strongerframes. The city is recruited from the country. In the year1805, it is said, every legitimate monarch in Europe was imbecile. The city would have died out, rotted, and exploded,long ago, but that it was reinforced from the fields. It is onlycountry which came to town day before yesterday, that is city and court to-day.

Aristocracy and fashion are certain inevitable results. These mutual selections are indestructible. If they provoke anger in the least favoured class, and the excluded majority revengethemselves on the excluding minority, bythe strong hand, and kill them, at once a new class finds itself at the top, as certainly as cream rises in a bowl of milk and if the people should destroy class after class, until two men only were left,one of these would be the leader, and would be involuntarilyserved 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 withthis tenacity, when I see its work. It respects the adminis- tration 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, areligious movement, and feel that the moral sentiment rules man and nature. We think all other distinctions and ties willbe slight and fugitive, this of caste or fashion, for example;yet come from year to year, and see how permanent that is, in this Boston or New York life of man, where, too, it has not theleast 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, ameeting of merchants, a military corps, a college class, a fire- club, a professional association, a political, a religious con- vention;-the persons seem to draw inseparably near; yet,MANNERS. 209that assembly once dispersed, its members will not in the yearmeet again. Each returns to his degree in the scale of goodsociety, porcelain remains porcelain, and earthen earthen. Theobjects of fashion may be frivolous, or fashion may be object- less, but the nature of this union and selection can be neitherfrivolous nor accidental. Each man's rank in that perfectgraduation depends on some symmetry in his structure, orsome agreement in his structure to the symmetry of society.Its doors unbar instantaneously to a natural claim of their ownkind. A natural gentleman finds his way in, and will keep theoldest patrician out, who has lost his intrinsic rank. Fashionunderstands itself; good-breeding and personal superiority ofwhatever country readily fraternize with those of every other.The chiefs of savage tribes have distinguished themselves inLondon and Paris, by the purity of their tournure.To say what good of fashion we can-it rests on reality, andhates nothing so much as pretenders to exclude and mystify pretenders, and send them into everlasting Coventry,' is its delight. We contemn, in turn, every other gift of men of the world; but the habit even in little and the least matters, ofnot appealing to any but our own sense of propriety, constitutes the foundation of all chivalry. There is almost no kind ofself- reliance, so it be sane and proportioned, which fashion does not occasionally adopt, and give it the freedom of its saloons. A sainted soul is always elegant, and, if it will,passes unchallenged into the most guarded ring. But so will Jock the teamster pass, in some crisis that brings him thither,and find favour, as long as his head is not giddy with the new circ*mstance, 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 individual.The maiden at her first ball, the countryman at a city dinner,believes that there is a ritual according to which every act andcompliment 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, orwhat else soever, in a new and aboriginal way: and that strong will is always in fashion, let who will be unfashionable. Allthat fashion demands is composure and self- content. A circleof men perfectly well-bred would be a company of sensible persons, in which every man's native manners and characterappeared. If the fashionist have not this quality, he is nothing.We are such lovers of self- reliance, that we excuse in a man many sins, if he will show us a complete satisfaction in hisposition, which asks no leave to be, of mine, or any man's good VOL. I. P210 ESSAY XVI.opinion. But any deference to some eminent man or woman of the world, forfeits all privilege of nobility. He is an underling: I have nothing to do with him; I will speak with his master. A man should not go where he cannot carry hiswhole sphere or society with him-not bodily, the whole circleof his friends, but atmospherically. He should preserve in anew 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 VichIan Vohr must always carry his belongings in some fashion, if not added as honour, then severed as disgrace.ووThere will always be in society certain persons who aremercuries of its approbation, and whose glance will at any time determine for the curious their standing in the world.These are the chamberlains of the lesser gods. Accept their coldness as an omen of grace with the loftier deities, and allowthem all their privilege. They are clear in their office, norcould they be thus formidable, without their own merits. Butdo not measure the importance of this class bytheir pretension,or imagine that a fop can be the dispenser of honour andshame. They pass also at their just rate; for how can they otherwise, in circles which exist as a sort of herald's office forthe sifting of character?As the first thing man requires of man is reality, so, thatappears in all the forms of society. We pointedly, and by name, introduce the parties to each other. Know you beforeall heaven and earth, that this is Andrew, and this is Gregory;-they look each other in the eye; they grasp each other'shand, to identify and signalize each other. It is a greatsatisfaction. Agentleman never dodges: his eyes look straightforward, and he assures the other party, first of all, that he has been met. For what is it that we seek, in so many visitsand 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 muchsubstance, excellent provision for comfort, luxury, and taste,and yet not encounter there any Amphitryon, who shall subordinate these appendages. I may go into a cottage, and find afarmer who feels that he is the man I have come to see, andfronts me accordingly. It was therefore a very natural pointof old feudal etiquette, that a gentleman who received a visit,though it were of his sovereign, should not leave his roof, but should wait his arrival at the door of his house. No house,though it were the Tuileries, or the Escurial, is good for anything without a master. And yet we are not often gratified by this hospitality. Every body we know surrounds himself withMANNERS. 211a fine house, fine books, conservatory, gardens, equipages, and all manner of toys, as screens to interpose between himself andhis guest. Does it not seem as if man was of a very sly,elusive nature, and dreaded nothing so much as a full rencontre front to front with his fellow? It were unmerciful, I know,quite to abolish the use of these screens, which are of eminent convenience, whether the guest is too great, or too little. Wecall together many friends who keep each other in play, or, by luxuries and ornaments we amuse the young people, and guardour retirement. Or if, perchance, a searching realist comes to our gate, before whose eye we have no care to stand, then again we run to our curtain, and hide ourselves as Adam atthe 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 themoff: and yet Napoleon, in his turn, was not great enough, with eight hundred thousand troops at his back, to face a pair offreeborn 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 andrich men are by no means the most skilful masters of good manners. No rent-roll nor army- list can dignify skulking anddissimulation: and the first point of courtesy must always betruth, as really all the forms of good-breeding point that way.I have just been reading, in Mr. Hazlitt's translation,Montaigne's account of his journey into Italy, and am struckwith 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. Whereverhe goes, he pays a visit to whatever prince or gentleman ofnote resides upon his road, as a duty to himself and to civilization. When he leaves any house in which he has lodgedfor a few weeks, he causes his arms to be painted and hung upas a perpetual sign to the house, as was the custom of gentle- men.The complement of this graceful self-respect, and that of allthe points of good-breeding I most require and insist upon, is deference. I like that every chair should be a throne, and holda king. I prefer a tendency to stateliness, to an excess offellowship. Let the incommunicable objects of nature and themetaphysical isolation of man teach us independence. Let usnot be too much acquainted. I would have a man enter hishouse through a hall filled with heroic and sacred_sculptures,that he might not want the hint of tranquillity and self- poise.We should meet each morning, as from foreign countries, and212 ESSAY XVI.spending the day together, should depart at night, as into foreign countries. In all things I would have the island of aman inviolate. Let us sit apart as the gods, talking from peakto peak all round Olympus. No degree of affection need invade this religion. This is myrrh and rosemary to keep the other sweet. Lovers should guard their strangeness. If theyforgive too much, all slides into confusion and meanness. Itis easy to push this deference to a Chinese etiquette; but coolness and absence of heat and haste indicate fine qualities. Agentleman makes no noise: a lady is serene. Proportionate is our disgust at those invaders who fill a studious house withblast and running, to secure some paltry convenience. Notless I dislike a low sympathy of each with his neighbour's needs. Must we have a good understanding with one another'spalates? as foolish people who have lived long together, know when each wants salt or sugar. I pray my companion, if hewishes for bread, to ask me for bread, and if he wishes forsassafras or arsenic, to ask me for them, and not to hold outhis plate, as if I knew already. Every natural function can bedignified by deliberation and privacy. Let us leave hurry toslaves. The compliments and ceremonies of our breeding shouldrecall, however remotely, the grandeur of our destiny.The flower of courtesy does not very well bide handling, butif we dare to open another leaf, and explore what parts go toits conformation, we shall find also an intellectual quality.To the leaders of men, the brain as well as the flesh and theheart must furnish a proportion. Defect in manners is usuallythe defect of fine perceptions. Men are too coarsely made forthe 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 ahomage to, beauty in our companions. Other virtues are inrequest in the field and workyard, but a certain degree of taste is not to be spared in those we sit with. I could better eatwith one who did not respect the truth or the laws, than witha sloven and unpresentable person. Moral qualities rule the world, but at short distances, the senses are despotic. Thesame discrimination of fit and fair runs out, if with less rigour,into all parts of life. The average spirit of the energetic classis good sense, acting under certain limitations and to certain ends. It entertains every natural gift. Social in its nature,it respects every thing which tends to unite men. It delights in measure. The love of beauty is mainly the love of measureor proportion. The person who screams, or uses the superlative degree, or converses with heat, puts whole drawing- roomsto flight. If you wish to be loved, love measure.You musthave genius, or a prodigious usefulness, if you will hide theMANNERS. 213want of measure. This perception comes in to polish and perfect the parts of the social instrument. Society will pardonmuch to genius and special gifts, but, being in its nature aconvention, it loves what is conventional, or what belongs tocoming together. That makes the good and bad of manners,namely, what helps or hinders fellowship. For, fashion is notgood sense absolute, but relative; not good sense private, butgood sense entertaining company. It hates corners and sharppoints of character, hates quarrelsome, egotistical, solitary,and gloomy people; hates whatever can interfere with totalblending 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 heightencivility, the direct splendour of intellectual power is ever welcome in fine society as the costliest addition to its rule and its credit.The dry light must shine in to adorn our festival, but it must be tempered and shaded, or that will also offend. Accuracy is essential to beauty, and quick perceptions to politeness,but not too quick perceptions. One may be too punctual and too precise. He must leave the omniscience of business at thedoor, when he comes into the palace of beauty. Society lovescreole natures, and sleepy, languishing manners, so that they cover sense, grace, and good- will: the air of drowsy strength,which disarms criticism; perhaps, because such a person seemsto reserve himself for the best of the game, and not spendhimself on surfaces; an ignoring eye, which does not see the annoyances, shifts, and inconveniences, that cloud the brow and smother the voice of the sensitive.Therefore, besides personal force and so much perception asconstitutes unerring taste, society demands in its patrician class,another element already intimated, which it significantly termsgood- nature, expressing all degrees of generosity, from thelowest willingness and faculty to oblige, up to the heights ofmagnanimity 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, isa certain heartiness and sympathy. A man who is not happyin the company, cannot find any word in his memory that will fit the occasion. All his information is a little impertinent.A man who is happy there, finds in every turn of the conversa- tion equally lucky occasions for the introduction of that which he has to say. The favourites of society, and what it callswhole souls, are able men, and of more spirit than wit, who haveno uncomfortable egotism, but who exactly fill the hour andthe company, contented and contenting, at a marriage or afuneral, a ball or a jury, a water-party or a shooting- match.214 ESSAY XVI.England, which is rich in gentlemen, furnished, in the begin- ning of the present century, a good model of that genius whichthe 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, inwhich Burke and Fox separated in the House of Commons;when Fox urged on his old friend the claims of old friendship with such tenderness, that the house was moved to tears.Another anecdote is so close to my matter, that I must hazardthe story. A tradesman who had long dunned him for a note of three hundred guineas, found him one day counting gold,and demanded payment: " No," said Fox, "I owe this money to Sheridan: it is a debt of honour: if an accident shouldhappen to me, he has nothing to show." "Then," said thecreditor, " 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.”66We may easily seem ridiculous in our eulogy of courtesy,whenever we insist on benevolence as its foundation. Thepainted phantasm Fashion rises to cast a species of derision onwhat we say. But I will neither be driven from some allowanceto Fashion as a symbolic institution, nor from the belief that love is the basis of courtesy. We must obtain that, if we can;but by all means we must affirm this. Life owes much of its spirit to these sharp contrasts. Fashion which affects to behonour, is often, in all men's experience, only a ball-room code.Yet, so long as it is the highest circle, in the imagination ofthe best heads on the planet, there is something necessary andexcellent in it; for it is not to be supposed that men haveagreed to be the dupes of anything preposterous; and therespect which these mysteries inspire in the most rude and sylvan characters, and the curiosity with which details of highlife are read, betray the universality of the love of cultivated manners. I know that a comic disparity would be felt, if weshould enter the acknowledged ' first circles, ' and apply theseterrific standards of justice, beauty, and benefit, to the indi- viduals actually found there. Monarchs and heroes, sages andlovers, these gallants are not. Fashion has many classes and many rules of probation and admission; and not the best alone.There is not only the right of conquest, which genius pretendsthe individual, demonstrating his natural aristocracy_best ofthe best; -but less claims will pass for the time; for FashionMANNERS. 215loves lions, and points, like Circe, to her horned company.This gentleman is this afternoon arrived from Denmark; and that is my Lord Ride, who came yesterday from Bagdat; here is Captain Friese, from Cape Turnagain; and Captain Symmes,from the interior of the earth; and Monsieur Jovaire, who came down this morning in a balloon; Mr. Hobnail, the reformer; and Reverend Jul Bat, who has converted the wholetorrid 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 dis- missed to their holes and dens; for, in these rooms, every chair is waited for. The artist, the scholar, and, in general, theclerisy, wins its way up into these places, and gets represented here, somewhat on this footing of conquest. Another mode is to pass through all the degrees, spending a year and a day in St. Michael's Square, being steeped in Cologne water, and per- fumed, and dined, and introduced, and properly grounded inall the biography, and politics, and anecdotes of the boudoirs.Yet these fineries may have grace and wit. Let there begrotesque sculpture about the gates and offices of temples.Let the creed and commandments even have the saucy homageof parody. The forms of politeness universally express bene- volence in superlative degrees. What if they are in the mouths of selfish men, and used as means of selfishness? What if thefalse gentleman almost bows the true out of the world? Whatif the false gentleman contrives so to address his companion,as civilly to exclude all others from his discourse, and also to make them feel excluded? Real service will not lose its noble- ness. 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 fromFashion's. The epitaph of Sir Jenkin Grout is not wholly unintelligible to the present age: " Here lies Sir Jenkin Grout,who loved his friend, and persuaded his enemy: what hismouth ate, his hand paid for: what his servants robbed, herestored: if a woman gave him pleasure, he supported her inpain: he never forgot his children: and whoso touched hisfinger, drew after it his whole body." Even the line of heroesis not utterly extinct. There is still ever some admirable person in plain clothes, standing on the wharf, who jumps in to rescue a drowning man; there is still some absurd inventor ofcharities; some guide and comforter of runaway slaves; somefriend of Poland; some Philhellene; some fanatic who plantsshade-trees for the second and third generation, and orchardswhen he is grown old; some well- concealed piety; some just216 ESSAY XVI.man happy in an ill- fame; some youth ashamed of the favoursof fortune, and impatiently casting them on other shoulders.And these are the centres of society, on which it returns forfresh impulses. These are the creators of Fashion, which is an attempt to organize beauty of behaviour. The beautifuland the generous are, in the theory, the doctors and apostlesof this church: Scipio, and the Čid, and Sir Philip Sidney,and Washington, and every pure and valiant heart, who worshipped Beauty by word and by deed. The persons who constitute the natural aristocracy are not found in the actualaristocracy, or, only on its edge; as the chemical energy ofthe spectrum is found to be greatest just outside of the spectrum. Yet that is the infirmity of the seneschals, who do notknow their sovereign when he appears. The theory of society supposes the existence and sovereignty of these. It divinesafar off their coming. It says with the elder gods,—" As Heaven and Earth are fairer far Than Chaos and blank Darkness, though once chiefs;And as we show beyond that Heaven and Earth,In form and shape compact and beautiful;So, on our heels a fresh perfection treads;A power, more strong in beauty, born of us,And fated to excel us, as we passIn glory that old Darkness:for, ' tis the eternal law,That first in beauty shall be first in might."Therefore, within the ethnical circle of good society, there isa narrower and higher circle, concentration of its light, andflower of courtesy, to which there is always a tacit appeal ofpride and reference, as to its inner and imperial court, the parliament of love and chivalry. And this is constituted ofthose persons in whom heroic dispositions are native, with thelove of beauty, the delight in society, and the power to embellish the passing day. If the individuals who compose thepurest circles of aristocracy in Europe, the guarded blood ofcenturies, should pass in review, in such manner as that wecould, at leisure, and critically inspect their behaviour, wemight find no gentleman, and no lady; for, although excellentspecimens of courtesy and high-breeding would gratify us in the assemblage, in the particulars, we should detect offence.Because, elegance comes of no breeding, but of birth. There must be romance of character, or the most fastidious exclusionof impertinencies will not avail. It must be genius which takes that direction: it must be not courteous, but courtesy.High behaviour is as rare in fiction as it is in fact. Scott ispraised for the fidelity with which he painted the demeanourMANNERS. 217and conversation of the superior classes. Certainly, kings and queens, nobles and great ladies, had some right to complain of the absurdity that had been put in their mouths, before the days of Waverley; but neither does Scott's dialogue bear criti- cism. His lords brave each other in smart epigrammaticspeeches, but the dialogue is in costume, and does not please on the second reading: it is not warm with life. In Shake- speare alone, the speakers do not strut and bridle, the dialogue is easily great, and he adds to so many titles that of being the best bred man in England, and in Christendom. Once or twice in a lifetime we are permitted to enjoy the charm of noble manners, in the presence of a man or woman who have no bar in their nature, but whose character emanates freely in their word and gesture. A beautiful form is better than abeautiful face; a beautiful behaviour is better than a beautifulform it gives a higher pleasure than statues or pictures; it is the finest of the fine arts . A man is but a little thing in themidst of the objects of nature, yet, by the moral quality radi- ating 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 neverlearned there, but were original and commanding, and held out protection and prosperity; one who did not need the aid of acourt- suit, but carried the holiday in his eye; who exhilarated the fancy by flinging wide the doors of new modes of exist- ence; 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 divide the sceptre at the door of the house. Woman, with herinstinct of behaviour, instantly detects in man a love of trifles,any coldness or imbecility, or, in short, any want of that large,flowing, and magnanimous deportment, which is indispensable as an exterior in the hall. Our American institutions havebeen friendly to her, and at this moment I esteem it a chief felicity of this country, that it excels in women. A certainawkward consciousness of inferiority in the men, may give riseto 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 soentirely in her inspiring and musical nature, that I believeonly herself can show us how she shall be served. The wonderful generosity of her sentiments raises her at times into heroical and godlike regions, and verifies the pictures of218 ESSAY XVI.you are.Minerva, Juno, or Polymnia; and, by the firmness with whichshe treads her upward path, she convinces the coarsest calcu- lators that another road exists than that which their feetknow. But besides those who make good in our imaginationthe place of muses and of Delphic Sibyls, are there not women who fill our vase with wine and roses to the brim, so that thewine runs over and fills the house with perfume; who inspireus with courtesy; who unloose our tongues, and we speak;who anoint our eyes, and we see? We say things we neverthought to have said; for once, our walls of habitual reservevanished, and left us at large; we were children playing with children in a wide field of flowers. Steep us, we cried, in theseinfluences, for days, for weeks, and we shall be sunny poets,and will write out in many-coloured words the romance that Was it Hafiz or Firdousi that said of his PersianLilla, She was an elemental force, and astonished me by her amount of life, when I saw her day after day radiating, everyinstant, redundant joy and grace on all around her. She wasa solvent powerful to reconcile all heterogeneous persons intoone society like air or water, an element of such a great range of affinities, that it combines readily with a thousandsubstances. Where she is present, all others will be more than they are wont. She was a unit and whole, so that whatsoever she did, became her. She had too much sympathy anddesire to please, than that you could say, her manners weremarked with dignity, yet no princess could surpass her clear and erect demeanour on each occasion. She did not study thePersian grammar, nor the books of the seven poets, but all thepoems of the seven seemed to be written upon her. For,though the bias of her nature was not to thought, but to sympathy, yet was she so perfect in her own nature, as to meet intellectual persons bythe fulness of her heart, warming thembyher sentiments; believing, as she did, that by dealing nobly with all, all would show themselves noble.

I know that this Byzantine pile of chivalry or Fashion,which seems so fair and picturesque to those who look at the contemporary facts for science or for entertainment, is notequally pleasant to all spectators. The constitution of oursociety 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 shadowyand relative: it is great by their allowance: its proudest gateswill fly open at the approach of their courage and virtue. Forthe present distress, however, of those who are predisposed to suffer from the tyrannies of this caprice, there are easy reme-MANNERS. 219dies. To remove your residence a couple of miles, or at mostfour, will commonly relieve the most extreme susceptibility.For, the advantages which fashion values, are plants whichthrive in very confined localities, in a few streets, namely. Outof this precinct they go for nothing; are of no use in the farm,in the forest, in the market, in war, in the nuptial society, inthe literary or scientific circle, at sea, in friendship, in the heaven of thought or virtue.But we have lingered long enough in these painted courts.The worth of the thing signified must vindicate our taste forthe emblem. Everything that is called fashion and courtesy humbles itself before the cause and fountain of honour, creatorof titles and dignities, namely, the heart of love. This is theroyal blood, this the fire, which, in all countries and contingen- cies, will work after its kind, and conquer and expand all thatapproaches it. This gives new meanings to every fact. Thisimpoverishes the rich, suffering no grandeur but its own. What is rich? Are you rich enough to help anybody? to succour the unfashionable and the eccentric? rich enough to makethe Canadian in his waggon, the itinerant with his consul'spaper which commends him "To the charitable," the swarthy Italian with his few broken words of English, the lame pauperhunted by overseers from town to town, even the poor insaneor besotted wreck of man or woman, feel the noble exception of your presence and your house, from the general bleaknessand stoniness; to make such feel that they were greeted witha voice which made them both remember and hope? What isvulgar, but to refuse the claim on acute and conclusive reasons?What is gentle, but to allow it, and give their heart and yours one holiday from the national caution? Without the richheart, wealth is an ugly beggar. The king of Schiraz couldnot afford to be so bountiful as the poor Osman who dwelt athis gate. Osman had a humanity so broad and deep, that al- though his speech was so bold and free with the Koran, as todisgust all the dervishes, yet was there never a poor outcast,eccentric, or insane man, some fool who had cut off his beard,or who had been mutilated under a vow, or had a pet madnessin his brain, but fled at once to him-that great heart laythere so sunny and hospitable in the centre of the country- that it seemed as if the instinct of all sufferers drew them tohis side. And the madness which he harboured he did notshare. Is not this to be rich? this only to be rightly rich?But I shall hear without pain, that I play the courtier very ill, and talk of that which I do not well understand. It is easyto see that what is called by distinction society and fashion,has good laws as well as bad; has much that is necessary, and much that is absurd. Too good for banning, and too bad for220 ESSAY XVII.blessing, it reminds us of a tradition of the pagan mythology,in any attempt to settle its character. I overheard Jove, oneday,' 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. Minervasaid, she hoped not; they were only ridiculous little creatures, with this odd circ*mstance, that they had a blur, orindeterminate aspect, seen far or seen near; if you called them bad they would appear so; if you called them good they wouldappear so; and there was no one person or action among them,which would not puzzle her owl, much more all Olympus, toknow whether it was fundamentally bad or good?XVII.-GIFTS.Gifts of one who loved me, -'Twas high time they came;When he ceased to love me,Time they stopped for shame.is said that the world is in a state of bankruptcy, that I the world owesthe world more than the world can pey, andought to go into chancery, and be sold. I do not think thisgeneral insolvency, which involves in some sort all the population, to be the reason of the difficulty experienced at Christmas and New Year, and other times, in bestowing gifts; since it isalways so pleasant to be generous, though very vexatious to pay debts. But the impediment lies in the choosing. If, atany time, it comes into my head that a present is due from meto somebody, I am puzzled what to give until the opportunityis 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 somewhat stern countenance of ordinary nature:they are like music heard out of a workhouse. Nature does not co*cker 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 frolicand interference of love and beauty. Men used to tell us thatwe love flattery, even though we are not deceived by it, becauseit shows that we are of importance enough to be courted.Something like that pleasure the flowers give us: what am Ito whom these sweet hints are addressed? Fruits are acceptable gifts because they are the flower of commodities, and ad- mit of fantastic values being attached to them. If a man shouldGIFTS. 221send to me to come a hundred miles to visit him, and shouldset before me a basket of fine summer fruit, I should thinkthere was some proportion between the labour and the reward.For common gifts, necessity makes pertinences and beautyevery day, and one is glad when an imperative leaves him nooption, 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 greatsatisfaction to supply these first wants. Necessity does everything well. In our condition of universal dependence, itseems 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 theoffice of punishing him. I can think of many parts I shouldprefer playing to that of the Furies. Next to things of necessity, the rule for a gift which one of my friends prescribed is,that we might convey to some person that which properly belonged to his character, and was easily associated with himin thought. But our tokens of compliment and love are forthe most part barbarous. Rings and other jewels are notgifts, but apologies for gifts. The only gift is a portion of thyself. Thou must bleed for me. Therefore the poet bringshis poem; the shepherd, his lamb; the farmer, corn; theminer, a gem; the sailor, coral and shells; the painter, his picture; the girl, a handkerchief of her own sewing. This isright and pleasing, for it restores society in so far to theprimary 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 acold, lifeless business when you go to the shops to buy mesomething, which does not represent your life and talent, buta goldsmith's. This is fit for kings, and rich men who represent kings, and a false state of property, to make presents ofgold 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 toreceive gifts. How dare you give them? We wish to be self- sustained. We do not quite forgive a giver. The hand thatfeeds us is in some danger of being bitten. We can receiveanything from love, for that is a way of receiving it from ourselves; but not from any one who assumes to bestow. We sometimes hate the meat which we eat, because there seemssomething of degrading dependence in living by it."Brother, if Jove to thee a present make,Take heed that from his hands thou nothing take. "222 ESSAY XVII.We ask the whole. Nothing less will content us. We arraignsociety if it do not give us besides earth, and fire, and water,opportunity, love, reverence, and objects of veneration.He is a good man who can receive a gift well. We are either glad or sorry at a gift, and both emotions are unbecoming. Some violence, I think, is done, some degradationborne, when I rejoice or grieve at a gift. I am sorry when myindependence 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 thatthe donor should read my heart, and see that I love hiscommodity, and not him. The gift, to be true, must be theflowing of the giver unto me, correspondent to my flowing unto him. When the waters are at level, then my goods passto him, and his to me. All his are mine, all mine his. I sayto him, How can you give me this pot of oil, or this flagon of wine, when all your oil and wine is mine, which belief of minethis gift seems to deny? Hence the fitness of beautiful, notuseful things for gifts. This giving is flat usurpation, and therefore when the beneficiary is ungrateful, as all beneficiarieshate all Timons, not at all considering the value of the gift,but looking back to the greater store it was taken from, Irather sympathize with the beneficiary than with the anger ofmy lord Timon. For, the expectation of gratitude is mean,and is continually punished by the total insensibility of the obliged person. It is a great happiness to get off withoutinjury and heart- burning, from one who has had the ill -luck tobe served by you. It is a very onerous business, this of being served, and the debtor naturally wishes to give you a slap. Agolden text for these gentlemen is that which I so admire inthe Buddhist, who never thanks, and who says, “ Do not flatter your benefactors."YouThe reason of these discords I conceive to be that there isno commensurability between a man and any gift.cannot give anything to a magnanimous person. After you have served him he at once puts you in debt by his magnanimity. The service a man renders his friend is trivial and selfish, compared with the service he knows his friend stood inreadiness to yield him, alike before he had begun to serve his friend, and now also. Compared with that good- will I bear my friend, the benefit it is in my power to render him seems small. Besides, our action on each other, good as well as evil,is so incidental and at random, that we can seldom hear theacknowledgments of any person who would thank us for abenefit, without some shame and humiliation. We can rarely strike a direct stroke, but must be content with an obliqueone; we seldom have the satisfaction of yielding a directNATURE. 223benefit, which is directly received. But rectitude scattersfavours on every side without knowing it, and receives with wonder the thanks of all people.I fear to breathe any treason against the majesty of love,which is the genius and god of gifts, and to whom we mustnot affect to prescribe. Let him give kingdoms or flower- leaves indifferently. There are persons from whom we alwaysexpect fairy-tokens; let us not cease to expect them. This isprerogative, and not to be limited by our municipal rules. For the rest, I like to see that we cannot be bought and sold. Thebest 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 needme; you do not feel me; then am I thrust out of doors, thoughyou 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. Butlove them, and they feel you, and delight in you all the time.XVIII.-NATURE.The rounded world is fair to see,Nine times folded in mystery:Though baffled seers cannot impart The secret of its labouring heart,Throb thine with Nature's throbbing breast,And all is clear from east to west.Spirit that lurks each form withinBeckons to spirit of its kin;Self-kindled every atom glows,And hints the future which it owes.HERE are days which occur in this climate, at almost anyfection, when the air, the heavenly bodies, and the earth, makea harmony, as if nature would indulge her offspring; when, inthese bleak upper sides of the planet, nothing is to desire that we have heard of the happiest latitudes, and we bask in theshining hours of Florida and Cuba; when everything that has life gives sign of satisfaction, and the cattle that lie on theground seem to have great and tranquil thoughts. These halcyons may be looked for with a little more assurance inthat pure October weather which we distinguish by the name of the Indian summer. The day, immeasurably long, sleepsover the broad hills and warm wide fields. To have lived224 ESSAY XVIII.through all its sunny hours seems longevity enough. Thesolitary places do not seem quite lonely. At the gates of the forest, the surprised man of the world is forced to leave hiscity estimates of great and small, wise and foolish. The knapsack of custom falls off his back with the first step he makes into these precincts. Here is sanctity which shames ourreligions, and reality which discredits our heroes. Here wefind nature to be the circ*mstance which dwarfs every othercirc*mstance, and judges like a god all men that come to her.We have crept out of our close and crowded houses into thenight and morning, and we see what majestic beauties dailywrap us in their bosom. How willingly we would escape the barriers which render them comparatively impotent, escapethe sophistication and second thought, and suffer nature to entrance 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 ofpines, hemlocks, and oaks, almost gleam like iron on theexcited eye. The incommunicable trees begin to persuade usto live with them, and quit our life of solemn trifles. Here nohistory, or church, or state, is interpolated on the divine skyand the immortal year. How easily we might walk onward into the opening landscape, absorbed by new pictures, and bythoughts fast succeeding each other, until by degrees the recollection of home was crowded out of the mind, all memoryobliterated by the tyranny of the present, and we were led in triumph by nature.These enchantments are medicinal, they sober and heal us.These are plain pleasures, kindly and native to us.We cometo our own, and make friends with matter, which the ambitious chatter of the schools would persuade us to despise. We nevercan part with it; the mind loves its old home: as water to ourthirst, so is the rock, the ground, to our eyes, and hands, and feet. It is firm water: it is cold flame: what health, what affinity! Ever an old friend, ever like a dear friend andbrother, when we chat affectedly with strangers, comes in thishonest face, and takes a grave liberty with us, and shames us out of our nonsense. Cities give not the human senses roomenough. We go out daily and nightly to feed the eyes on thehorizon, and require so much scope, just as we need water forour bath. There are all degrees of natural influence, fromthese quarantine powers of nature, up to her dearest andgravest ministrations to the imagination and the soul. There is the bucket of cold water from the spring, the wood fire to which the chilled traveller rushes for safety, —and there is the sublime moral of autumn and of noon. We nestle in nature,and draw our living as parasites from her roots and grains,NATURE. 225and we receive glances from the heavenly bodies, which call us to solitude, and foretell the remotest future. The blue zenithis the point in which romance and reality meet. I think, if weshould be rapt away into all that we dream of heaven, andshould converse with Gabriel and Uriel, the upper sky would be all that would remain of our furniture.It seems as if the day was not wholly profane in which wehave given heed to some natural object. The fall of snowflakes in a still air, preserving to each crystal its perfect form; theblowing of sleet over a wide sheet of water, and over plains;the waving ryefield; the mimic waving of acres of houstonia,whose innumerable florets whiten and ripple before the eye;the reflections of trees and flowers in glassy lakes; the musical steaming odorous south wind, which converts all treesto wind-harps; the crackling and spurting of hemlock in theflames; or of pine- logs, which yield glory to the walls and faces in the sitting-room,—these are the music and picturesof the most ancient religion. My house stands in low land,with limited outlook, and on the skirt of the village. But I gowith my friend to the shore of our little river, and with onestroke 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, toobright almost for spotted man to enter without novitiate andprobation. We penetrate bodily this incredible beauty: wedip our hands in this painted element: our eyes are bathed in these lights and forms. A holiday, a villeggiatura, a royalrevel, the proudest, most heart-rejoicing festival that valourand beauty, power and taste, ever decked and enjoyed, esta- blishes itself on the instant. These sunset clouds, these delicately emerging stars, with their private and ineffable glances,signify it and proffer it. I am taught the poorness of our invention, the ugliness of towns and palaces. Art and luxuryhave early learned that they must work as enhancement andsequel to this original beauty. I am over-instructed for myreturn. Henceforth I shall be hard to please. I cannot goback to toys. I am grown expensive and sophisticated. I canno 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, theplants, the heavens, and how to come at these enchantments,is the rich and royal man. Only as far as the masters of the world have called in nature to their aid, can they reach theheight of magnificence. This is the meaning of their hanging- gardens, villas, garden-houses, islands, parks, and preserves,to back their faulty personality with these strong accessories.I do not wonder that the landed interest should be invincible VOL. I. Q226 ESSAY XVIII.in the state with these dangerous auxiliaries. These bribe andinvite; not kings, not palaces, not men, not women, but these tender and poetic stars, eloquent of secret promises. Weheard what the rich man said, we knew of his villa, his grove,his wine, and his company, but the provocation and point of the invitation came out of these beguiling stars. In their softglances, I see what men strove to realize in some Versailles,or Paphos, or Ctesiphon. Indeed, it is the magical lights ofthe horizon, and the blue sky for the background, which save all our works of art, which were otherwise baubles. When therich tax the poor with servility and obsequiousness, they should consider the effect of men reputed to be the possessorsof nature, on imaginative minds. Ah! if the rich were rich as the poor fancy riches! A boy hears a military band play onthe field at night, and he has kings and queens, and famous chivalry palpably before him. He hears the echoes of a hornin a hill country, in the Notch Mountains, for example, which converts the mountains into an Æolian harp, and this supernatural tiralira restores to him the Dorian mythology, Apollo,Diana, and all divine hunters and huntresses. Can a musicalnote be so lofty, so haughtily beautiful! To the poor youngpoet, thus fabulous is his picture of society; he is loyal; he respects the rich; they are rich for the sake of his imagina- tion; how poor his fancy would be if they were not rich!That they have some high-fenced grove which they call a park;that they live in larger and better-garnished saloons than hehas visited, and go in coaches, keeping only the society of theelegant, to watering-places and to distant cities, are thegroundwork from which he has delineated estates of romance,compared with which their actual possessions are shanties andpaddocks. The muse herself betrays her son, and enhancesthe gifts of wealth and well- born beauty, by a radiation out of the air, and clouds, and forests that skirt the road, -a certainhaughty favour, as if from patrician genii to patricians, akind of aristocracy in nature, a prince of the power of the air.The moral sensibility which makes Edens and Tempes soeasily, may not be always found, but the material landscape is never far off. We can find these enchantments withoutvisiting the Como Lake, or the Madeira Islands. We exaggerate the praises of local scenery. In every landscape, thepoint of astonishment is the meeting of the sky and the earth,and that is seen from the first hillock, as well as from the topof the Alleghanies. The stars at night stoop down over the brownest, homeliest common, with all the spiritual magnificence which they shed on the Campagna, or on the marbledeserts of Egypt. The uprolled clouds and the colours ofmorning and evening, will transfigure maples and alders. TheNATURE. 227difference between landscape and landscape is small, but there is great difference in the beholders. There is nothing sowonderful in any particular landscape as the necessity of being beautiful under which every landscape lies. Naturecannot be surprised in undress. Beauty breaks in every- where.But it is very easy to outrun the sympathy of readers on this topic, which schoolmen called natura naturata, or naturepassive. One can hardly speak directly of it without excess.It is as easy to broach in mixed companies what is called "thesubject of religion." A susceptible person does not like toindulge his tastes in this kind, without the apology of some trivial necessity: he goes to see a wood-lot, or to look at thecrops, or to fetch a plant or a mineral from a remote locality,or he carries a fowling- piece, or a fishing- rod. I suppose this shame must have a good reason. A dilettantism in nature isbarren and unworthy. The fop of fields is no better than hisbrother 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 takeplace in the most sumptuous drawing-rooms of all the "Wreaths " and " Flora's chaplets " of the bookshops; yetordinarily, whether we are too clumsy for so subtle a topic, orfrom whatever cause, as soon as men begin to write on nature,they fall into euphuism. Frivolity is a most unfit tribute toPan, who ought to be represented in the mythology as themost continent of gods. I would not be frivolous before theadmirable reserve and prudence of time, yet I cannot renouncethe right of returning often to this old topic. The multitudeof false churches accredits the true religion. Literature,poetry, science, are the homage of man to this unfathomedsecret, concerning which no sane man can affect an indifference or incuriosity. Nature is loved by what is best in us.loved as the city of God, although, or rather because there isno citizen. The sunset is unlike anything that is underneath it: it wants men. And the beauty of nature must alwaysseem unreal and mocking, until the landscape has humanfigures that are as good as itself. If there were good menthere would never be this rapture in nature. If the king is inthe palace nobody looks at the walls. It is when he is gone,and the house is filled with grooms and gazers, that we turnfrom the people, to find relief in the majestic men that are suggested by the pictures and the architecture. The criticswho complain of the sickly separation of the beauty of naturefrom the thing to be done, must consider that our hunting ofthe picturesque is inseparable from our protest against false society. Man is fallen; nature is erect, and serves as aIt is228 ESSAY XVIII.differential thermometer, detecting the presence or absence ofthe divine sentiment in man. By fault of our dullness andselfishness, we are looking up to nature; but when we are con- valescent nature will look up to us. We see the foamingbrook with compunction: if our own life flowed with the right energy we should shame the brook. The stream of zealsparkles with real fire, and not with reflex rays of sun and moon. Nature may be as selfishly studied as trade. Astronomyto the selfish becomes astrology; psychology, mesmerism(with intent to show where our spoons are gone); and anatomyand physiology become phrenology and palmistry.But taking timely warning, and leaving many things unsaidon this topic, let us not longer omit our homage to theEfficient Nature, natura naturans, the quick cause, before which all forms flee as the driven snows, itself secret, itsworks driven before it in flocks and multitudes (as the ancientsrepresented nature by Proteus, a shepherd), and in indescribable variety. It publishes itself in creatures, reaching from particles and spicula, through transformation on transformation to the highest symmetries, arriving at consummateresults without a shock or a leap. A little heat, that is, alittle motion, is all that differences the bald, dazzling white,and deadly cold poles of the earth from the prolific tropical climates. All changes pass without violence, by reason of thetwo cardinal conditions of boundless space and boundlesstime. Geology has initiated us into the secularity of nature,and taught us to disuse our dame- school measures and exchange our Mosaic and Ptolemaic schemes for her large style.We knew nothing rightly, for want of perspective. Now welearn what patient periods must round themselves before the rock is formed, then before the rock is broken, and the firstlichen race has disintegrated the thinnest external plate intosoil, 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 longway from granite to the oyster, farther yet to Plato and thepreaching 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 codeof her laws may be written on the thumbnail, or the signet ofa ring. The whirling bubble on the surface of a brook admits us to the secret of the mechanics of the sky. Every shell onthe beach is a key to it. A little water made to rotate in a cupexplains the formation of the simpler shells; the addition ofmatter from year to year arrives at last at the most complexNATURE. 229forms; and yet so poor is nature with all her craft, that, fromthe beginning to the end of the universe, she has but one stuff- but one stuff with its two ends, to serve up all her dreamlike variety. Compound it how she will, star, sand, fire,water, tree, man, it is still one stuff, and betrays the same properties.Nature is always consistent, though she feigns to contraveneher own laws. She keeps her laws, and seems to transcendthem. She arms and equips an animal to find its place andliving in the earth, and, at the same time, she arms and equips another animal to destroy it. Space exists to divide creatures;but by clothing the sides of a bird with a few feathers, shegives him a petty omnipresence. The direction is for ever onward, but the artist still goes back for materials, and beginsagain with the first elements on the most advanced stage:otherwise, all goes to ruin. If we look at her work, we seemto catch a glance of a system in transition. Plants are the young of the world, vessels of health and vigour; but theygrope ever upward towards consciousness; the trees are imperfect men, and seem to bemoan their imprisonment, rooted inthe ground. The animal is the novice and probationer of a more advanced order. The men, though young, havingtasted the first drop from the cup of thought, are already dissipated; the maples and ferns are still uncorrupt; yet no doubt, when they come to consciousness, they too will curse and swear. Flowers so strictly belong to youth, that we adultmen soon come to feel that their beautiful generations concernnot us: we have had our day; nowlet the children have theirs.The flowers jilt us, and we are old bachelors with our ridicu- lous tenderness.Things are so strictly related, that according to the skill of the eye, from any one object the parts and properties of anyother may be predicted. If we had eyes to see it, a bit ofstone from the city wall would certify us of the necessity thatman must exist, as readily as the city. That identity makes usall one, and reduces to nothing great intervals on our customary scale. We talk of deviations from natural life, as if artifi- cial life were not also natural. The smoothest curled courtierin the boudoirs of a palace has an animal nature, rude andaboriginal as a white bear, omnipotent to its own ends, and isdirectly related, there amid essences and billets- doux, toHimmaleh mountain-chains and the axis of the globe. If weconsider how much we are nature's, we need not be supersti- tious about towns, as if that terrific or benefic force did notfind us there also, and fashion cities. Nature, who made themason, made the house. We may easily hear too much ofrural influences. The cool disengaged air of natural objects230 ESSAY XVIII.makes them enviable to us, chafed and irritable creatures withred 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, thoughwe sit in chairs of ivory on carpets of silk.This guiding identity runs through all the surprises andcontrasts of the piece, and characterizes every law. Mancarries the world in his head, the whole astronomy and chemistry suspended in a thought. Because the history of nature is charactered in his brain, therefore is he the prophet and discoverer of her secrets. Every known fact in natural sciencewas divined by the presentiment of somebody, before it wasactually verified. A man does not tie his shoe without recognizing laws which bind the farthest regions of nature: moon,plant, gas, crystal, are concrete geometry and numbers. Common sense knows its own, and recognizes the fact at first sightin chemical experiment. The common sense of Franklin, Dalton, Davy, and Black, is the same common sense which made the arrangements which now it discovers.6If the identity expresses organized rest, the counter actionruns also into organization. The astronomers said, ' Give usmatter, and a little motion, and we will construct the universe.It is not enough that we should have matter, we must alsohave 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 allthis 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 notwaited for the discussion, but, right or wrong, bestowed theimpulse, and the balls rolled. It was no great affair, a merepush, but the astronomers were right in making much of it,for there is no end to the consequences of the act. Thatfamous aboriginal push propagates itself through all the ballsof the system, and through every atom of every ball, through all the races of creatures, and through the history and performances of every individual. Exaggeration is in the courseof things. Nature sends no creature, no man into the world,without adding a small excess of his proper quality. Giventhe planet, it is still necessary to add the impulse; so, to every creature nature added a little violence of direction in its properpath, a shove to put it on its way; in every instance, a slightgenerosity, a drop too much. Without electricity the air would rot, and without this violence of direction, which menand women have, without a spice of bigot and fanatic, no excitement, no efficiency. We aim above the mark to hit theNATURE. 231mark. Every act hath some falsehood of exaggeration in it.And when now and then comes along some sad, sharp- eyedman, who sees howpaltry a game is played, and refuses to play,but blabs the secret;-how then? Is the bird flown? O no,the way Nature sends a new troop of fairer forms, of lordlier youths, with a little more excess of direction to hold them fast to their several aim; makes them a little wrong-headed in thatdirection in which they are rightest, and on goes the gameagain with new whirl, for a generation or two more. The childwith his sweet pranks, the fool of his senses, commanded by every sight and sound, without any power to compare and rankhis sensations, abandoned to a whistle or a painted chip, to alead dragoon, or a gingerbread dog, individualizing everything,generalizing nothing, delighted with every newthing, lies down at night overpowered by the fatigue, which this day of continualpretty madness has incurred. But Nature has answered herpurpose with the curly, dimpled lunatic. She has tasked everyfaculty, and has secured the symmetrical growth of the bodily frame, by all these attitudes and exertions an end of the firstimportance, which could not be trusted to any care less perfect than her own. This glitter, this opaline lustre plays round thetop of every toy to his eye, to insure his fidelity, and he is deceived to his good. We are made alive and kept alive by thesame arts. Let the stoics say what they please, we do not eatfor the good of living, but because the meat is savoury and theappetite is keen. The vegetable life does not content itselfwith casting from the flower or the tree a single seed, but itfills 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 onemay replace the parent. All things betray the same calculated profusion. The excess of fear with which the animal frame ishedged round, shrinking from cold, starting at sight of asnake, or at a sudden noise, protects us, through a multitudeof groundless alarms, from some one real danger at last. Thelover seeks in marriage his private felicity and perfection,with no prospective end; and nature hides in his happinessher own end, namely, progeny, or the perpetuity of the race.But the craft with which the world is made, runs also into the mind and character of men. No man is quite sane; eachhas a vein of folly in his composition, a slight determination of blood to the head, to make sure of holding him hard to someone point which nature had taken to heart. Great causes arenever tried on their merits; but the cause is reduced to particulars to suit the size of the partisans, and the contention is ever hottest on minor matters. Not less remarkable is the overfaith of each man in the importance of what he has to do or1232 ESSAY XVIII.say. The poet, the prophet, has a higher value for what heutters than any hearer, and therefore it gets spoken. Thestrong, self- complacent Luther declares with an emphasis notto be mistaken, that " God himself cannot do without wise men. " Jacob Behmen and George Fox betray their egotismin the pertinacity of their controversial tracts, and JamesNaylor once suffered himself to be worshipped as the Christ.Each prophet comes presently to identify himself with histhought, and to esteem his hat and shoes sacred. Howeverthis may discredit such persons with the judicious, it helpsthem with the people, as it gives heat, pungency, and publicityto their words. A similar experience is not infrequent in private life. Each young and ardent person writes a diary, inwhich, when the hours of prayer and penitence arrive, heinscribes his soul. The pages thus written are to him burningand fragrant: he reads them on his knees by midnight andby the morning star; he wets them with his tears; they aresacred; too good for the world, and hardly yet to be shown to the dearest friend. This is the man-child that is born to thesoul, and her life still circulates in the babe. The umbilicalcord has not yet been cut. After some time has elapsed, hebegins to wish to admit his friend to this hallowed experience,and with hesitation, yet with firmness, exposes the pages to hiseye. Will they not burn his eyes? The friend coldly turns them over, and passes from the writing to conversation witheasy transition, which strikes the other party with astonishment and vexation. He cannot suspect the writing itself.Days and nights of fervid life, of communion with angels ofdarkness and of light, have engraved their shadowy characterson that tear-stained book. He suspects the intelligence or theheart of his friend. Is there then no friend? He cannot yetcredit that one may have impressive experience, and yet maynot know how to put his private fact into literature; and perhaps the discovery that wisdom has other tongues and ministers than we, that though we should hold our peace, the truthwould not the less be spoken, might check injuriously theflames of our zeal. A man can only speak, so long as he doesnot feel his speech to be partial and inadequate. It is partial,but he does not see it to be so whilst he utters it. As soon ashe is released from the instinctive and particular, and sees itspartiality, he shuts his mouth in disgust. For no man canwrite anything, who does not think that what he writes is forthe time the history of the world, or do anything well whodoes not esteem his work to be of importance. My work maybe of none, but I must not think it of none, or I shall not do itwith impunity.In like manner there is throughout nature something mock-NATURE. 233ing, something that leads us on and on, but arrives nowhere,-keeps no faith with us. All promise outruns the perform- ance. We live in a system of approximations. Every end isprospective of some other end, which is also temporary; around and final success nowhere. We are encamped in nature,not domesticated. Hunger and thirst lead us on to eat and todrink; but bread and wine, mix and cook them how you will,leave us hungry and thirsty after the stomach is full. It is thesame with all our arts and performances. Our music, ourpoetry, our language itself, are not satisfactions, but sugges- tions. The hunger for wealth, which reduces the planet to agarden, fools the eager pursuer. What is the end sought?Plainly to secure the ends of good sense and beauty from the intrusion of deformity or vulgarity of any kind. But what anoperose method! What a train of means to secure a littleconversation! This palace of brick and stone, these servants,this kitchen, these stables, horses and equipage, this bankstock, and file of mortgages; trade to all the world, countryhouse and cottage by the water side, all for a little conversation, high, clear, and spiritual! Could it not be had as wellby beggars on the highway? No, all these things came from successive efforts of these beggars to remove friction from thewheels of life, and give opportunity. Conversation, character,were the avowed ends; wealth was good as it appeased theanimal cravings, cured the smoky chimney, silenced the creak.ing door, brought friends together in a warm and quiet room,and kept the children and the dinner-table in a different apartment. Thought, virtue, beauty, were the ends; but it was known that men of thought and virtue sometimes had theheadache, or wet feet, or could lose good time whilst the roomwas getting warm in winter days. Unluckily, in the exertions necessary to remove these inconveniences, the main attentionhas been diverted to this object; the old aims have been lostsight of, and to remove friction has come to be the end. Thatis the ridicule of rich men, and Boston, London, Vienna, andnow the governments generally of the world, are cities andgovernments of the rich, and the masses are not men, but poor men, that is, men who would be rich; this is the ridicule of theclass, that they arrive with pains and sweat and fury nowhere;when all is done, it is for nothing. They are like one who hasinterrupted the conversation of a company to make his speech,and now has forgotten what he went to say. The appearancestrikes the eye everywhere of an aimless society, of aimless nation's. Were the ends of nature so great and cogent, as toexact this immense sacrifice of men?Quite analogous to the deceits in life, there is, as might be expected, a similar effect on the eye from the face of external234 ESSAY XVIII.nature. There is in woods and waters a certain enticement!and flattery, together with a failure to yield a present satisfaction. This disappointment is felt in every landscape. I haveseen the softness and beauty of the summer- clouds floatingfeathery overhead, enjoying, as it seemed, their height andprivilege of motion, whilst yet they appeared not so much thedrapery of this place and hour, as forelooking to somepavilions and gardens of festivity beyond. It is an oddjealousy but the poet finds himself not near enough to his object. The pine-tree, the river, the bank of flowers beforehim, does not seem to be nature. Nature is still elsewhere.This or this is but outskirt and far- off reflection and echo ofthe triumph that has passed by, and is now at its glancingsplendour and heyday, perchance in the neighbouring fields,or, if you stand in the field, then in the adjacent woods. Thepresent object shall give you this sense of stillness thatfollows a pageant which has just gone by. What splendid distance, what recesses of ineffable pomp and loveliness in the sunset! But who can go where they are, or lay his hand orplant 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, anabsence, never a presence and satisfaction. Is it that beautycan never be grasped? in persons and in landscape is equally inaccessible? The accepted and betrothed lover has lost the wildest charm of his maiden in her acceptance of him. Shewas heaven whilst he pursued her as a star: she cannot beheaven, 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 notengaged to a serious resentment of this use that is made of us? Are we tickled trout, and fools of nature? One look atthe 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 rashlyexplained. Her secret is untold. Many and many an Edipus arrives: he has the whole mystery teeming in his brain.Alas! the same sorcery has spoiled his skill; no syllable can he shape on his lips. Her mighty orbit vaults like the fresh rainbow into the deep, but no archangel's wing was yet strongenough to follow it, and report of the return of the curve.But it also appears that our actions are seconded anddisposed to greater conclusions than we designed. We are escorted on every hand through life by spiritual agents, and abeneficent purpose lies in wait for us. We cannot bandyNATURE. 235words with nature, or deal with her as we deal with persons.If we measure our individual forces against hers, we may easily feel as if we were the sport of an insuperable destiny.But if, instead of identifying ourselves with the work, we feel that the soul of the workman streams through us, we shallfind the peace of the morning dwelling first in our hearts, andthe fathomless powers of gravity and chemistry, and, over them, of life, pre- existing within us in their highest form.The uneasiness which the thought of our helplessness in thechain of causes occasions us, results from looking too much atone condition of nature, namely, Motion. But the drag isnever taken from the wheel. Wherever the impulse exceedsthe Rest or Identity insinuates its compensation. All overthe wide fields of earth grows the prunella or self- heal. After every foolish day we sleep off the fumes and furies of itshours; 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 inthe mind as ideas, stand around us in nature for ever embodied,a present sanity to expose and cure the insanity of men. Ourservitude to particulars betrays us into a hundred foolishexpectations. We anticipate a new era from the invention ofa locomotive, or a balloon; the new engine brings with it theold checks. They say that by electro-magnetism your saladshall be grown from the seed whilst your fowl is roasting fordinner: it is a symbol of our modern aims and endeavoursof our condensation and acceleration of objects: but nothingis gained: nature cannot be cheated: man's life is but seventysalads long, grow they swift or grow they slow. In thesechecks and impossibilities, however, we find our advantage,not less than in the impulses. Let the victory fall where itwill, we are on that side. And the knowledge that we traversethe whole scale of being, from the centre to the poles ofnature, and have some stake in every possibility, lends thatsublime lustre to death, which philosophy and religion havetoo outwardly and literally striven to express in the populardoctrine of the immortality of the soul. The reality is moreexcellent 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 thoughtagain, as ice becomes water and gas. The world is mind precipitated, and the volatile essence is for ever escaping againinto the state of free thought. Hence the virtue and pungencyof the influence on the mind, of natural objects, whether inorganic or organized. Man imprisoned, man crystallized, manvegetative, speaks to man impersonated. That power whichdoes not respect quantity, which makes the whole and the236 ESSAY XIX.particle its equal channel, delegates its smile to the morning,and distils its essence into every drop of rain. Every moment instructs, and every object: for wisdom is infused into everyform. It has been poured into us as blood; it convulsed us aspain; it slid into us as pleasure; it enveloped us in dull,melancholy days, or in days of cheerful labour; we did notguess its essence, until after a long time.XIX. -POLITICS.Gold and iron are goodTo buy iron and gold;All earth's fleece and food ,For their like are sold.Boded Merlin wise,Proved Napoleon great, ―Nor kind nor coinage buys Aught above its rate.Fear, Craft, and Avarice Cannot rear a State,Out of dust to build What is more than dust, -Walls Amphion piled Phoebus stablish must.When the Muses nine With the Virtues meet,Find to their design An Atlantic seat,By green orchard boughs Fended from the heat,Where the statesman ploughs Furrow for the wheat;When the Church is social worth,When the State-house is the hearth,Then the perfect State is come,The republican at home.IN dealing with the State, we ought to remember that its institutions are not aboriginal, though they existed beforewe were born: that they are not superior to the citizen: thatevery one of them was once the act of a single man: every lawand usage was a man's expedient to meet a particular case:that they all are imitable, all alterable; we may make as good;we may make better. Society is an illusion to the youngcitizen. It lies before him in rigid repose, with certain names,men, and institutions, rooted like oak- trees to the centre,POLITICS. 237round which all arrange themselves the best they can.But the old statesman knows that society is fluid; there areno such roots and centres; but any particle may suddenly become the centre of the movement, and compel the system togyrate round it, as every man of strong will, like Pisistratusor Cromwell, does for a time, and every man of truth, like Plato or Paul, does for ever. But politics rest on necessaryfoundations, and cannot be treated with levity. Republics abound in young civilians, who believe that the laws make thecity, that grave modifications of the policy and modes ofliving, and employments of the population, that commerce,education, and religion may be voted in or out; and that anymeasure, though it were absurd, may be imposed on a people,if only you can get sufficient voices to make it a law. But thewise know that foolish legislation is a rope of sand, whichperishes in the twisting; that the State must follow, and not lead the character and progress of the citizen; the strongest usurper is quickly got rid of; and they only who build onIdeas, build for eternity; and that the form of government which prevails, is the expression of what cultivation exists inthe population which permits it. The law is only a memo- randum. 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 weagreed so and so, but how feel ye this article to-day? Ourstatute is a currency, which we stamp with our own portrait:it soon becomes unrecognizable, and in process of time will return to the mint. Nature is not democratic, nor limitedmonarchical, but despotic, and will not be fooled or abated ofany jot of her authority, by the pertest of her sons: and asfast as the public mind is opened to more intelligence, thecode is seen to be brute and stammering. It speaks not articulately, and must be made to. Meantime the educationof the general mind never stops. The reveries of the true andsimple are prophetic. What the tender poetic youth dreams,and prays, and paints to-day, but shuns the ridicule of sayingaloud, shall presently be the resolutions of public bodies, thenshall be carried as grievance and bill of rights through conflict and war, and then shall be triumphant law and establishmentfor a hundred years, until it gives place, in turn, to new prayers and pictures. The history of the State sketches incoarse outline the progress of thought, and follows at adistance the delicacy of culture and of aspiration.The theory of politics, which has possessed the minds ofmen, and which they have expressed the best they could in their laws and in their revolutions, considers persons andproperty as the two objects for whose protection government238 ESSAY XIX.exists. Of persons, all have equal rights, in virtue of being identical in nature. This interest, of course, with its wholepower demands a democracy. Whilst the rights of all aspersons are equal, in virtue of their access to reason, theirrights in property are very unequal. One man owns hisclothes, and another owns a county. This accident, depending,primarily, on the skill and virtue of the parties, of which thereis every degree, and, secondarily, on patrimony, falls unequally,and its rights, of course, are unequal. Personal rights, universally the same, demand a government framed on the ratio of the census: property demands a government framed on theratio of owners and of owning. Laban, who has flocks andherds, 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 Labanand Jacob should have equal rights to elect the officer, who isto defend their persons, but that Laban, and not Jacob, shouldelect the officer who is to guard the sheep and cattle. And,if question arise whether additional officers or watch- towersshould be provided, must not Laban and Isaac, and those whomust 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, noother opinion would arise in any equitable community, thanthat property should make the law for property, and persons the law for persons.But property passes through donation or inheritance to thosewho do not create it. Gift, in one case, makes it as really the new owner's, as labour made it the first owner's: in the othercase, of patrimony, the law makes an ownership, which will bevalid in each man's view according to the estimate which hesets on the public tranquillity.It was not, however, found easy to embody the readilyadmitted principle, that property should make law for propertyand persons for persons: since persons and property mixed themselves in every transaction. At last it seemed settled,that the rightful distinction was, that the proprietors should have more elective franchise than non-proprietors, on theSpartan 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 toomuch weight had not been allowed in the laws. to property, andPOLITICS. 239such a structure given to our usages, as allowed the rich toencroach on the poor, and to keep them poor; but mainly,because there is an instinctive sense, however obscure and yetinarticulate, that the whole constitution of property, on itspresent tenures, is injurious, and its influence on persons deteriorating and degrading; that truly, the only interest forthe consideration of the State, is persons: that property willalways 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. Weare 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, whohave seen through the hypocrisy of courts and statesmen, die,and leave no wisdom to their sons. They believe their own newspaper, as their fathers did at their age. With such anignorant and deceivable majority, States would soon run toruin, but that there are limitations, beyond which the folly andambition of governors cannot go. Things have their laws, aswell as men; and things refuse to be trifled with. Propertywill be protected. Corn will not grow, unless it is planted andmanured; but the farmer will not plant or hoe it, unless the chances are a hundred to one that he will cut and harvest it.Under any forms, persons and property must and will havetheir just sway. They exert their power, as steadily as matterits attraction. Cover up a pound of earth never so cunningly,divide and subdivide it; melt it to liquid, convert it to gas; itwill always weigh a pound: it will always attract and resistother matter, by the full virtue of one pound weight; —and theattributes 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, thenagainst it; if not wholesomely, then poisonously; with rightor by might.The boundaries of personal influence it is impossible to fix,as persons are organs of moral or supernatural force. Underthe dominion of an idea, which possesses the minds of multi- tudes, as civil freedom, or the religious sentiment, the powers of persons are no longer subjects of calculation. A nation ofmen unanimously bent on freedom, or conquest, can easily con- found the arithmetic of statists, and achieve extravagantactions, out of all proportion to their means; as, the Greeks,the Saracens, the Swiss, the Americans, and the French have done.240 ESSAY XIX.In like manner, to every particle of property belongs its ownattraction. 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, somuch water, so much land. The law may do what it will withthe owner of property, its just power will still attach to thecent. The law may in a mad freak say, that all shall have power except the owners of property: they shall have no vote.Nevertheless, by a higher law, the property will, year afteryear, write every statute that respects property. The non- proprietor will be the scribe of the proprietor. What theowners wish to do, the whole power of property will do, eitherthrough the law, or else in defiance of it. Of course, I speakof all the property, not merely of the great estates. When therich are outvoted, as frequently happens, it is the joint treasury of the poor which exceeds their accumulations. Every manowns something, if it is only a cow, or a wheelbarrow, or hisarms, and so has that property to dispose of.The same necessity which secures the rights of person andproperty against the malignity or folly of the magistrate,determines the form and methods of governing, which areproper to each nation, and to its habit of thought, and nowise transferable to other states of society. In this country, we arevery vain of our political institutions, which are singular inthis, that they sprung, within the memory of living men, fromthe character and condition of the people, which they stillexpress with sufficient fidelity-and we ostentatiously preferthem to any other in history. They are not better, but only fitter for us. We may be wise in asserting the advantage inmodern times of the democratic form, but to other states ofsociety, in which religion consecrated the monarchical, thatand not this was expedient. Democracy is better for us,because the religious sentiment of the present time accordsbetter with it. Born democrats, we are no wise qualified tojudge 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 discreditedother forms. Every actual State is corrupt. Good men mustnot obey the laws too well. What satire on government canequal the severity of censure conveyed in the word politic,which now for ages has signified cunning, intimating that the State is a trick .The same benign necessity and the same practical abuse appear in the parties into which each State divides itself, ofopponents and defenders of the administration of the govern- ment. Parties are also founded on instincts, and have betterPOLITICS. 241guides to their own humble aims than the sagacity of their leaders. They have nothing perverse in their origin, but rudely mark some real and lasting relation. We might aswisely 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 inwhich they find themselves. Our quarrel with them begins,when they quit this deep natural ground at the bidding of some leader, and, obeying personal considerations, throw themselvesinto the maintenance and defence of points, nowise belongingto their system. A party is perpetually corrupted by per- sonality. Whilst we absolve the association from dishonesty,we cannot extend the same charity to their leaders. They reapthe rewards of the docility and zeal of the masses which they direct. Ordinarily, our parties are parties of circ*mstance,and not of principle; as, the planting interest in conflict withthe commercial; the party of capitalists, and that of operatives;parties which are identical in their moral character, and whichcan easily change ground with each other, in the support of many of their measures. Parties of principle, as, religioussects, or the party of free-trade, of universal suffrage, of abolition of slavery, of abolition of capital punishment, degenerate into personalities, or would inspire enthusiasm. Thevice of our leading parties in this country (which may be citedas a fair specimen of these societies of opinion) is, that they donot plant themselves on the deep and necessary grounds towhich they are respectively entitled, but lash themselves tofury in the carrying of some local and momentary measure,nowise useful to the commonwealth. Of the two great parties,which, at this hour, almost share the nation between them, Ishould say, that one has the best cause, and the other containsthe best men. The philosopher, the poet, or the religious man,will, of course, wish to cast his vote with the democrat, forfree-trade, for wide suffrage, for the abolition of legal crueltiesin the penal code, and for facilitating in every manner the access of the young and the poor to the sources of wealth andpower. But he can rarely accept the persons whom the so- called popular party propose to him as representatives of theseliberalities. They have not at heart the ends which give to thename 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 isdestructive only out of hatred and selfishness. On the otherside, the conservative party, composed of the most moderate,able, and cultivated part of the population, is timid, and merelydefensive of property. It vindicates no right, it aspires to no real good, it brands no crime, it proposes no generous policy,VOL. I. R242 ESSAY XIX.it does not build, nor write, nor cherish the arts, nor fosterreligion, nor establish schools, nor encourage science, noremancipate the slave, nor befriend the poor, or the Indian, orthe immigrant. From neither party, when in power, has theworld any benefit to expect in science, art, or humanity, at all commensurate with the resources of the nation.I do not for these defects despair of our republic. We are not at the mercy of any waves of chance. In the strife offerocious 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 institutionslapsing into anarchy; and the older and more cautious among ourselves are learning from Europeans to look with some terror at our turbulent freedom. It is said that in our licenseof construing the Constitution, and in the despotism of public opinion, we have no anchor; and one foreign observer thinks he has found the safeguard in the sanctity of Marriage among us; and another thinks he has found it in our Calvinism.Fisher Ames expressed the popular security more wisely, when he compared a monarchy and a republic, saying, "that amonarchy is a merchantman, which sails well, but will some- times 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." Noforms can have any dangerous importance, whilst we are befriended by thelaws ofthings. It makes no difference how many tons weight of atmosphere presses on our heads, so long as the same pressure resists it within the lungs. Augment the mass a thousandfold, it cannot begin to crush us, as long as reaction is equal to action. The fact of two poles, of two forces, centripetal and centrifugal, is universal, and each force by its own activity develops the other. Wild liberty develops iron conscience. Want of liberty, by strengthening law and decorum, stupefies conscience. Lynch-law' prevails onlywhere there is greater hardihood and self- subsistency in the leaders. Amob cannot be a permanency: everybody's interestrequires that it should not exist, and only justice satisfies all.6We must trust infinitely to the beneficent necessity which shines through all laws. Human nature expresses itself inthem as characteristically as in statues, or songs, or railroads,and an abstract of the codes of nations would be a transcriptof the common conscience. Governments have their origin in the moral identity of men. Reason for one is seen to bereason for another, and for every other. There is a middle measure which satisfies all parties, be they never so many, orso resolute for their own. Every man finds a sanction for his simplest claims and deeds in decisions of his own mind, whichPOLITICS. 243he calls Truth and Holiness. In these decisions all the citizensfind a perfect agreement, and only in these; not in what isgood to eat, good to wear, good use of time, or what amount ofland, or of public aid each is entitled to claim. This truthand justice men presently endeavour to make application of,to the measuring of land, the apportionment of service, theprotection of life and property. Their first endeavours, nodoubt, are very awkward. Yet absolute right is the firstgovernor; or, every government is an impure theocracy. Theidea, after which each community is aiming to make and mend its law, is, the will of the wise man. The wise man, it cannotfind in nature, and it makes awkward but earnest efforts tosecure his government by contrivance; as, by causing the entire people to give their voices on every measure; or, by adouble choice, to get the representation of the whole; or, by aselection of the best citizens; or, to secure the advantages ofefficiency and internal peace, by confiding the government toone, who may himself select his agents. All forms of government symbolize an immortal government, common to alldynasties and independent of numbers, perfect where two menexist, perfect where there is only one man.Every man's nature is a sufficient advertisem*nt to him of the character of his fellows. My right and my wrong is theirright and their wrong. Whilst I do what is fit for me, andabstain from what is unfit, my neighbour and I shall oftenagree in our means, and work together for a time to one end.But whenever I find my dominion over myself not sufficientfor me, and undertake the direction of him also, I overstep thetruth, and come into false relations to him. I may have so much more skill or strength than he, that he cannot expressadequately his sense of wrong, but it is a lie, and hurts like alie both him and me. Love and nature cannot maintain theassumption: it must be executed by a practical lie, namely, byforce. This undertaking for another, is the blunder whichstands in colossal ugliness in the governments of the world.It is the same thing in numbers, as in a pair, only not quiteso intelligible. I can see well enough a great differencebetween my setting myself down to a self- control, and mygoing to make somebody else act after my views: but when aquarter ofthe human race assume to tell me what I must do,I may be too much disturbed by the circ*mstances to see soclearly the absurdity of their command. Therefore, all publicends 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 onethought, and see that things are thus or thus, that perception is law for him and me. We are both there, both act. But if,244 ESSAY XIX.without carrying him into the thought, I look over into his plot, and, guessing how it is with him, ordain this or that, hewill never obey me. This is the history of governments-oneman does something which is to bind another. A man whocannot be acquainted with me, taxes me; looking from afar at me, ordains that a part of my labour shall go to this or thatwhimsical end, not as I, but as he happens to fancy. Behold the consequence. Of all debts, men are least willing to paythe taxes. What a satire is this on government! Everywherethey think they get their money's worth, except for these.Hence, the less government we have, the better-the fewerlaws, and the less confided power. The antidote to this abuse of formal government is, the influence of private character,the growth of the Individual; the appearance of the principalto supersede the proxy; the appearance of the wise man, of whom the existing government is, it must be owned, but ashabby imitation. That which all things tend to educe, which freedom, cultivation, intercourse, revolutions, go to form and deliver, is character; that is the end of nature, to reach unto this coronation of her king. To educate the wise man, the State exists; and with the appearance of the wise man, the State expires. The appearance of character makes the State unnecessary. The wise man is the State. He needs no army,fort, or navy-he loves men too well; no bribe, or feast, or palace to draw friends to him; no vantage ground, no favour- able circ*mstance. He needs no library, for he has not donethinking; 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 andeducate a few, to share with him a select and poetic life. His relation to men is angelic; his memory is myrrh to them; his presence, frankincense and flowers.We think our civilization near its meridian, but we are yetonly at the co*ck-crowing and the morning star.In ourbarbarous society the influence of character is in its infancy.As a political power, as the rightful lord who is to tumble all rulers from their chairs, its presence is hardly yet suspected.Malthus and Ricardo quite omit it; the Annual Register is silent; in the Conversations' Lexicon, it is not set down; thePresident's Message, the Queen's Speech, have not mentionedit; and yet it is never nothing. Every thought which geniusand piety throw into the world, alters the world. The gladiators in the lists of power feel, through all their frocks of forceand simulation, the presence of worth. I think the very strifePOLITICS. 245of trade and ambition are confession of this divinity; and successes in those fields are the poor amends, the fig- leaf withwhich the shamed soul attempts to hide its nakedness. I findthe like unwilling homage in all quarters. It is because weknow how much is due from us, that we are impatient to showsome petty talent as a substitute for worth. We are hauntedby a conscience of this right to grandeur of character, and are false to it. But each of us has some talent, can do somewhatuseful, or graceful, or formidable, or amusing, or lucrative.That we do, as an apology to others and to ourselves, for notreaching the mark of a good and equal life. But it does notsatisfy us, whilst we thrust it on the notice of our companions.It may throw dust in their eyes, but does not smooth our ownbrow, or give us the tranquillity of the strong when we walk abroad. We do penance as we go. Our talent is a sort ofexpiation, and we are constrained to reflect on our splendid moment, with a certain humiliation, as somewhat too fine, andnot as one act of many acts, a fair expression of our permanent energy. Most persons of ability meet in society with a kind oftacit appeal. Each seems to say, ' I am not all here.' Senatorsand presidents have climbed so high with pain enough, notbecause they think the place specially agreeable, but as an apology for real worth, and to vindicate their manhood in oureyes. 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 havenothing but a prehensile tail: climb they must, or crawl. If a man found himself so rich-natured that he could enter intostrict relations with the best persons, and make life serenearound him by the dignity and sweetness of his behaviour,could he afford to circumvent the favour of the caucus and thepress, and covet relations so hollow and pompous, as those of a politician? Surely nobody would be a charlatan, who could afford to be sincere.The tendencies of the times favour the idea of self-government, and leave the individual, for all code, to the rewards and penalties of his own constitution, which work with moreenergy than we believe, whilst we depend onartificial restraints.The movement in this direction has been very marked inmodern history. Much has been blind and discreditable, but the nature of the revolution is not affected by the vices of therevolters; for this is a purely moral force. It was neveradopted by any party in history, neither can be. It separatesthe individual from all party, and unites him, at the same time,to the race. It promises a recognition of higher rights thanthose of personal freedom, or the security of property. A manhas a right to be employed, to be trusted, to be loved, to be246 ESSAY XIX.revered. The power of love, as the basis of a State, has neverbeen tried. We must not imagine that all things are lapsinginto confusion, if every tender protestant be not compelled tobear his part in certain social conventions: nor doubt that roads can be built, letters carried, and the fruit of laboursecured, when the government of force is at an end. Are ourmethods now so excellent that all competition is hopeless?could not a nation of friends even devise better ways? On the other hand, let not the most conservative and timid fearanything from a premature surrender of the bayonet, and thesystem 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 whenthey are pure enough to abjure the code of force, they will bewise enough to see how these public ends of the post-office, ofthe highway, of commerce, and the exchange of property, of museums and libraries, of institutions of art and science, can be answered.We live in a very low state of the world, and pay unwillingtribute to governments founded on force. There is not, amongthe most religious and instructed men of the most religious andcivil nations, a reliance on the moral sentiment, and a sufficientbelief in the unity of things to persuade them that society can be maintained without artificial restraints, as well as the solarsystem; or that the private citizen might be reasonable, and agood neighbour, without the hint of a jail or a confiscation.What is strange too, there never was in any man sufficientfaith in the power of rectitude, to inspire him with the broaddesign of renovating the State on the principle of right andlove. All those who have pretended this design, have beenpartial reformers, and have admitted in some manner thesupremacy of the bad State. I do not call to mind a singlehuman 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 entertainedexcept avowedly as air-pictures. If the individual who exhibitsthem, dare to think them practicable, he disgusts scholars and churchmen; and men of talent, and women of superior sentiments, cannot hide their contempt. Not the less does nature continue to fill the heart of youth with suggestions of thisenthusiasm, and there are now men, -if indeed I can speak inthe plural number, -more exactly, I will say, I have just been conversing with one man, to whom no weight of adverseexperience will make it for a moment appear impossible, thatthousands of human beings might exercise towards each otherthe grandest and simplest sentiments, as well as a knot offriends, or a pair of lovers.247XX.-NOMINALIST AND REALIST,In countless upward-striving waves The moon-drawn tide-wave strives,In thousand far-transplanted graftsThe parent fruit survives;So, in the new- born millions,The perfect Adam lives.Not less are summer mornings dearTo every child they wake,And each with novel life his sphereFills for his proper sake.ICANNOT often enough say that a man is only a relativeand 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 Ishall not find it. Could any man conduct into me the purestream of that which he pretends to be! Long afterwards Ifind that quality elsewhere which he promised me. The genius of the Platonists is intoxicating to the student, yet how fewparticulars of it can I detach from all their books. The manmomentarily stands for the thought, but will not bear examina- tion; and a society of men will cursorily represent wellenough a certain quality and culture, for example, chivalry orbeauty of manners, but separate them, and there is no gentleman and no lady in the group. The least hint sets us on the pursuit of a character, which no man realizes. We have suchexorbitant 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 wasdrawn than just that fragment of an arc which we first beheld.We are greatly too liberal in our construction of each other'sfaculty and promise. Exactly what the parties have alreadydone they shall do again; but that which we inferred fromtheir nature and inception they will not do. That is in nature,but not in them. That happens in the world, which we oftenwitness in a public debate. Each of the speakers expresses himself imperfectly: no one of them hears much that anothersays, such is the preoccupation of mind of each; and theaudience, who have only to hear and not to speak, judge verywisely and superiorly how wrongheaded and unskilful is each of the debaters to his own affair. Great men or men of greatgifts you shall easily find, but symmetrical men never.When248 ESSAY XX.I meet a pure intellectual force, or a generosity of affection, Ibelieve, here then is man; and am presently mortified by thediscovery, that this individual is no more available to his ownor to the general ends than his companions; because the power which drew my respect is not supported by the totalsymphony of his talents. All persons exist to ' society by some shining trait of beauty or utility, which they have. Weborrow the proportions of the man from that one fine feature,and finish the portrait symmetrically; which is false; for therest of bis body is small or deformed. I observe a person who makes a good public appearance, and conclude thence theperfection of his private character, on which this is based; buthe has no private character. He is a graceful cloak or lay figure for holidays. All our poets, heroes, and saints failutterly in some one or in many parts to satisfy our idea, failto draw our spontaneous interest, and so leave us without any hope of realization but in our own future. Our exaggerationof all fine characters arises from the fact that we identify each in turn with the soul. But there are no such men as we fable;no Jesus, nor Pericles, nor Cæsar, 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 nonewithout his foible. I verily believe if an angel should come to chant the chorus of the moral law he would eat too muchgingerbread, or take liberties with private letters, or do some precious atrocity. It is bad enough that our geniuses cannotdo anything useful, but it is worse that no man is fit forsociety who has fine traits. He is admired at a distance, buthe 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, ashe best can, his incapacity for useful association, but they want either love or self- reliance.Our native love of reality joins with this experience to teach us a little reserve, and to dissuade a too sudden surrender to the brilliant qualities of persons. Young people admire talents or particular excellences; as we grow older wevalue total powers and effects, as the impression, the quality,the spirit of men and things. The genius is all. The man,—it is his system: we do not try a solitary word or act, but his habit. The acts which you praise I praise not, since they aredepartures from his faith, and are mere compliances. Themagnetism which arranges tribes and races in one polarity, is alone to be respected; the men are steel-filings. Yet weunjustly select a particle, and say, ' O steel-filing number one!what heart-drawings I feel to thee! what prodigious virtuesare these of thine! how constitutional to thee, and incommu-NOMINALIST AND REALIST. 249nicable!' 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. Humanlife and its persons are poor empirical pretensions . A per- sonal influence is an ignisfatuus. If they say, it is great, it is great; if they say, it is small, it is small; you see it, and yousee 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 atone angle. Who can tell if Washington be a great man, or no? Who can tell if Franklin be? Yes, or any but thetwelve, or six, or three great gods of fame? And they, too,loom and fade before the eternal.We are amphibious creatures, weaponed for two elements,having two sets of faculties, the particular and the catholic.We adjust our instrument for general observation, and sweep the heavens as easily as we pick out a single figure in the terrestrial landscape. We are practically skilful in detecting elements for which we have no place in our theory, and no name. Thus we are very sensible of an atmospheric influence in men and in bodies of men, not accounted for in an arith- metical addition of all their measurable properties. There is a genius of a nation, which is not to be found in the numericalcitizens, but which characterizes the society. England, strong,punctual, practical, well- spoken England, I should not find, ifI should go to the island to seek it. Inthe parliament, in the playhouse, at dinner-tables, I might see a great number of rich, ignorant, book-read, conventional, proud men, -many old women, and not anywhere the Englishman who made thegood speeches, combined the accurate engines, and did the bold and nervous deeds. It is even worse in America, where,from the intellectual quickness of the race, the genius of the country is more splendid in its promise, and more slight in its performance. Webster cannot do the work of Webster.We conceive distinctly enough the French, the Spanish,the German genius, and it is not the less real, that per- haps we should not meet in either of those nations a single individual who corresponded with the type. We infer the spirit of the nation in great measure from the language,which is a sort of monument, to which each forcible individual in a course of many hundred years has contributed a stone. And, universally, a good example of this social force is the veracity of language, which cannot be debauched. In any controversy concerning morals, an appeal may be madewith safety to the sentiments which the language of the people expresses. Proverbs, words, and grammar inflections250 ESSAY XX.convey the public sense with more purity and precision than the wisest individual.In the famous dispute with the Nominalists, the Realistshad a good deal of reason.General ideas are essences. Theyare our gods: they round and ennoble the most partial andsordid way of living. Our proclivity to details cannot quitedegrade our life, and divest it of poetry. The day labourer isreckoned as standing at the foot of the social scale, yet he is saturated with the laws of the world. His measures are thehours; 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, andwhich is hardly spoken of in parlours without an apology, is,in its effects and laws, as beautiful as roses. Property keepsthe accounts of the world, and is always moral. The property will be found where the labour, the wisdom, and the virtuehave been in nations, in classes, and (the whole lifetime considered, with the compensations) in the individual also. Howwise the world appears when the laws and usages of nationsare largely detailed, and the completeness of the municipalsystem is considered! Nothing is left out. If you go into the markets, and the custom-houses, the insurers' and notaries'offices, the offices of sealers of weights and measures, of inspection of provisions, —it will appear as if one man had madeit all. Wherever you go, a wit like your own has been beforeyou, and has realized its thought. The Eleusinian mysteries,the Egyptian architecture, the Indian astronomy, the Greeksculpture, show that there always were seeing and knowing men in the planet. The world is full of masonic ties, of guilds,of secret and public legions of honour; that of scholars, forexample; and that of gentlemen fraternizing with the upperclass of every country and every culture.butI am very much struck in literature by the appearance, thatone person wrote all the books; as if the editor of a journalplanted his body of reporters in different parts of the field of action, and relieved some by others from time to time;there is such equality and identity both of judgment andpoint of view in the narrative, that it is plainly the work ofone all- seeing, all-hearing gentleman. I looked into Pope'sOdyssey yesterday: it is as correct and elegant after ourcanon of to-day as if it were newly written. The modernnessof 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 Ireck 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 whole over the members in my useof books. I find the most pleasure in reading a book in aNOMINALIST AND REALIST. 251women.manner least flattering to the author. I read Proclus, andsometimes Plato, as I might read a dictionary, for a mechanicalhelp to the fancy and the imagination. I read for the lustres,as if one should use a fine picture in a chromatic experiment,for its rich colours. 'Tis not Proclus, but a piece of natureand fate that I explore. It is a greater joy to see the author's author than himself. A higher pleasure of the same kind Ifound lately at a concert, where I went to hear Handel's Messiah. As the master overpowered the littleness and incapableness of the performers, and made them conductors of hiselectricity, so it was easy to observe what efforts nature wasmaking through so many hoarse, wooden, and imperfect per- sons, to produce beautiful voices, fluid and soul- guided men andThe genius of nature was paramount at the oratorio.This preference of the genius to the parts is the secret of that deification of art, which is found in all superior minds.Art, in the artist, is proportion, or, a habitual respect to thewhole by an eye loving beauty in details. And the wonderand charm of it is the sanity in insanity which it denotes.Proportion is almost impossible to human beings. There is noone who does not exaggerate. In conversation, men are encumbered with personality, and talk too much. In modernsculpture, picture, and poetry, the beauty is miscellaneous;the artist works here and there, and at all points, adding andadding, instead of unfolding the unit of his thought. Beautiful details we must have, or no artist: but they must be meansand never other. The eye must not lose sight for a momentof the purpose. Lively boys write to their ear and eye, and the cool reader finds nothing but sweet jingles in it. Whenthey 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 thenever quite obsolete rumours of magic and demonology, andthe new allegations of phrenologists and neurologists, are ofideal use. They are good indications. Homœopathy is insig- nificant as an art of healing, but of great value as criticism onthe hygeia or medical practice of the time. So with Mesmerism, Swedenborgism, Fourierism, and the Millennial Church;they are poor pretensions enough, but good criticism on thescience, philosophy, and preaching of the day. For these abnormal insights of the adepts ought to be normal, and things of course.All things show us that on every side we are very near to the best. It seems not worth while to execute with too muchpains some one intellectual, or æsthetical, or civil feat, when presently the dream will scatter, and we shall burst into universal power. The reason of idleness and of crime is the deferring252 ESSAY XX.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 agentswith which we deal are subalterns, which we can well afford tolet pass, and life will be simpler when we live at the centre andflout 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 totreat them as individuals. Though the uninspired man certainly finds persons a conveniency in household matters, thedivine man does not respect them: he sees them as a rack ofclouds, or a fleet of ripples which the wind drives over the surface of the water. But this is flat rebellion. Nature will notbe Buddhist she resents generalizing, and insults the philosopher in every moment with a million of fresh particulars. Itis all idle talking: as much as a man is a whole so is he also apart; and it were partial not to see it. What you say in yourpompous distribution only distributes you into your class andsection. You have not got rid of parts by denying them, butare the more partial. You are one thing, but nature is onething and the other thing, in the same moment. She will notremain orbed in a thought, but rushes into persons; and wheneach person, inflamed to a fury of personality, would conquerall things to his poor crotchet, she raises up against him another person, and by many persons incarnates again a sort ofwhole. She will have all. Nick Bottom cannot play all theparts, work it how he may: there will be somebody else, andthe world will be round. Everything must have its flower oreffort at the beautiful, coarser or finer according to its stuff.They relieve and recommend each other, and the sanity ofsociety is a balance of a thousand insanities. She punishesabstractionists, and will only forgive an induction which israre and casual. We like to come to a height of land and seethe landscape, just as we value a general remark in conversa- tion. But it is not the intention of nature that we should liveby general views. We fetch fire and water, run about all dayamong the shops and markets, and get our clothes and shoesmade and mended, and are the victims of these details, andonce in a fortnight we arrive perhaps at a rational moment.If we were not thus infatuated, if we sawthe real from hour tohour, we should not be here to write and to read, but shouldhave been burned or frozen long ago. She would never getanything done if she suffered admirable Crichtons and universal geniuses. She loves better a wheelwright who dreams allnight of wheels, and a groom who is part of his horse: for sheNOMINALIST AND REALIST. 253is full of work, and these are her hands. As the frugal farmer takes care that his cattle shall eat down the rowen, and swineshall eat the waste of his house, and poultry shall pick thecrumbs, so our economical mother despatches a new geniusand habit of mind into every district and condition of exist- ence, plants an eye wherever a new ray of light can fall, andgathering up into some man every property in the universe,establishes thousandfold occult mutual attractions among heroffspring, that all this wash and waste of power may be im- parted and exchanged.Great dangers undoubtedly accrue from this incarnationand distribution of the godhead, and hence nature has hermaligners, as if she were Circe; and Alphonso of Castilefancied he could have given useful advice. But she does notgo unprovided; she has hellebore at the bottom of the cup.Solitude would ripen a plentiful crop of despots . The reclusethinks of men as having his manner, or as not having his manner; and as having degrees of it, more and less . But when hecomes into a public assembly, he sees that men have very dif- ferent manners from his own, and in their way admirable. Inhis childhood and youth he has had many checks and censures,and thinks modestly enough of his own endowment. Whenafterwards he comes to unfold it in propitious circ*mstance, itseems the only talent: he is delighted with his success, and accounts himself already the fellow of the great. But hegoes into a mob, into a banking house, into a mechanic's shop,into a mill, into a laboratory, into a ship, into a camp, and ineach new place he is no better than an idiot: other talentstake place, and rule the hour. The rotation which whirls everyleaf and pebble to the meridian, reaches to every gift of man,and we all take turns at the top.For nature, who abhors mannerism, has set her heart on breaking up all styles and tricks, and it is so much easier to dowhat one has done before than to do a new thing, that there is a perpetual tendency to a set mode. In every conversation,even the highest, there is a certain trick, which may be soonlearned by an acute person, and then that particular style continued indefinitely. Each man, too, is a tyrant in tendency,because he would impose his idea on others; and their trick is their natural defence. Jesus would absorb the race; but TomPaine or the coarsest blasphemer helps humanity by resistingthis exuberance of power. Hence the immense benefit of party in politics, as it reveals faults of character in a chief, which the intellectual force of the persons, with ordinary opportunity, and not hurled into aphelion by hatred, could not have seen. Since we are all so stupid, what benefit that thereshould be two stupidities! It is like that brute advantage so254 ESSAY XX.essential to astronomy, of having the diameter of the earth'sorbit for a base of its triangles. Democracy is morose, and runs to anarchy, but in the state, and in the schools, it is indispensable to resist the consolidation of all men into a few men.If John was perfect, why are you and I alive? As long as anyman exists there is some need of him; let him fight for hisown. A new poet has appeared; a new character approachedus; why should we refuse to eat bread, until we have foundhis regiment and section in our old army-files? Why not anew man? Here is a new enterprise of Brook Farm, of Skeneateles, of Northampton: why so impatient to baptize themEssenes, or Port- Royalists, or Shakers, or by any known andeffete name? Let it be a new way of living. Why have onlytwo or three ways of life, and not thousands? Every man iswanted, and no man is wanted much. We came this time forcondiments, not for corn. We want the great genius only forjoy; for one star more in our constellation, for one tree morein our grove. But he thinks we wish to belong to him, as he wishes to occupy us. He greatly mistakes us. I think I havedone well if I have acquired a newword from a good author;my business with him is to find my own, though it were onlyto melt him down into an epithet or an image for daily use." Into paint will I grind thee, my bride!"andTo embroil the confusion, and make it impossible to arriveat any general statement, when we have insisted on the imper- fection of individuals, our affections and our experience urgethat every individual is entitled to honour, and a very generoustreatment is sure to be repaid. A recluse sees only two orthree persons, and allows them all their room; they spread themselves at large. The statesman looks at many, and com- pares the few habitually with others, and these look less. Yetare they not entitled to this generosity of reception? and is not munificence the means of insight? For though gamesterssay that the cards beat all the players, though they were neverso skilful, yet in the contest we are nowconsidering , the playersare also the game, and share the power of the cards. If you criticise a fine genius, the odds are that you are out of yourreckoning, and, instead of the poet, are censuring your owncaricature of him. For there is somewhat spheral and infinitein every man, especially in every genius, which, if you can come very near him, sports with all your limitations. For,rightly, every man is a channel through which heaven floweth,and, whilst I fancied I was criticising him, I was censuring orrather terminating my own soul. After taxing Goethe as acourtier, artificial, unbelieving, worldly, I took up his book of Helena, and found him an Indian of the wilderness, a piece ofNOMINALIST AND REALIST. 255pure nature like an apple or an oak, large as morning or night,and virtuous as a brier-rose.66But care is taken that the whole tune shall be played. Ifwe were not kept among surfaces, everything would be large and universal: now the excluded attributes burst in on uswith 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 successionto the meridian, and by the speed of rotation, a new whole is formed. Nature keeps herself whole, and her representationcomplete in the experience of each mind. She suffers no seat to be vacant in her college. It is the secret of the world thatall things subsist, and do not die, but only retire a little fromsight, and afterwards return again. Whatever does not con- cern us, is concealed from us. As soon as a person is nolonger related to our present well-being, he is concealed, ordies, as we say. Really, all things and persons are related tous, but according to our nature, they act on us not at once,but in succession, and we are made aware of their presenceone at a time. All persons, all things which we have known,are here present, and many more than we see; the world isfull. As the ancient said, the world is a plenum or solid; andif we saw all things that really surround us, we should beimprisoned and unable to move. For, though nothing isimpassable to the soul, but all things are pervious to it, andlike highways, yet this is only whilst the soul does not see them. As soon as the soul sees any object, it stops beforethat object. Therefore, the divine Providence, which keeps the universe open in every direction to the soul, conceals all the furniture and all the persons that do not concern a particular soul, from the senses of that individual. Throughsolidest eternal things, the man finds his road, as if they didnot subsist, and does not once suspect their being. As soonas he needs a new object, suddenly he beholds it, and no longerattempts to pass through it, but takes another way. When he has exhausted for the time the nourishment to be drawnfrom any one person or thing, that object is withdrawn fromhis observation, and though still in his immediate neighbourhood, he does not suspect its presence. Nothing is dead:men feign themselves dead, and endure mock funerals andmournful obituaries, and there they stand looking out of the window, sound and well, in some new and strange disguise.Jesus is not dead: he is very well alive: nor John, norPaul, nor Mahomet, nor Aristotle; at times we believe wehave seen them all, and could easily tell the names under which they go.256 ESSAY XX.If we cannot make voluntary and conscious steps in the admirable science of universals, let us see the parts wisely,and infer the genius of nature from the best particulars with a becoming charity. What is best in each kind is an index ofwhat should be the average of that thing. Love shows methe opulence of nature, by disclosing to me in my friend ahidden wealth, and I infer an equal depth of good in everyother direction . It is commonly said by farmers, that a goodpear or apple costs no more time or pains to rear than a poor one; so I would have no work of art, no speech, or action, or thought, or friend, but the best.The end and the means, the gamester and the game-lifeis made up of the intermixture and reaction of these twoamicable powers, whose marriage appears beforehand mon- strous, as each denies and tends to abolish the other. We must reconcile the contradictions as we can, but their discordand their concord introduce wild absurdities into our thinkingand speech. No sentence will hold the whole truth, and theonly way in which we can be just, is by giving ourselves the lie; Speech is better than silence; silence is better thanspeech;-All things are in contact; every atom has a sphereof repulsion; -Things are, and are not, at the same time; -and the like. All the universe over, there is but one thing,this old Two-Face, creator- creature, mind-matter, right- wrong,of which any proposition may be affirmed or denied. Veryfitly, therefore, I assert, that every man is a partialist, that/ nature secures him as an instrument by self- conceit, prevent- ing the tendencies to religion and science; and now furtherassert, that, each man's genius being nearly and affectionatelyexplored, he is justified in his individuality, as his nature is found to be immense; and now I add, that every man is auniversalist also, and, as our earth, whilst it spins on its ownaxis, spins all the time around the sun through the celestial spaces, so the least of its rational children, the most dedicatedto his private affair, works out, though as it were under a disguise, the universal problem. We fancy men are individuals;so are pumpkins; but every pumpkin in the field goes throughevery point of pumpkin history. The rabid democrat, as soon as he is senator and rich man, has ripened beyond possibility of sincere radicalism, and unless he can resist the sun, hemust be conservative the remainder of his days. Lord Eldonsaid in his old age, “ that, if he were to begin life again, he would be damned but he would begin as agitator. "We hide this universality, if we can, but it appears at allpoints. We are as ungrateful as children. There is nothing we cherish and strive to draw to us, but in some hour we turn and rend it. We keep a running fire of sarcasm at ignoranceNOMINALIST AND REALIST. 257and the life of the senses; then goes by, perchance, a fairgirl, a piece of life, gay and happy, and making the commonest offices beautiful, by the energy and heart with which she doesthem; and seeing this, we admire and love her and them, and say, ' Lo; a genuine creature of the fair earth, not dissipated,or too early ripened by books, philosophy, religion, society, orcare!' insinuating a treachery and contempt for all we had so long loved and wrought in ourselves and others.If we could have any security against moods! If the profoundest prophet could be holden to his words, and the hearerwho is ready to sell all and join the crusade, could have any certificate that to-morrow his prophet shall not unsay histestimony! 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 Godwere carried forward some furlongs, and planted there for thesuccour of the world, shall in a few weeks be coldly set asideby the same speaker, as morbid; ' I thought I was right, butI was not,'-and the same immeasurable credulity demandedfor new audacities. If we were not of all opinions! if we didnot in any moment shift the platform on which we stand, andlook and speak from another! if there could be any regulation, any one-hour- rule,' that a man should never leave hispoint of view without sound of trumpet! I am always in- sincere, as always knowing there are other moods.6How sincere and confidential we can be, saying all that liesin the mind, and yet go away feeling that all is yet unsaid,from the incapacity of the parties to know each other,although they use the same words! My companion assumesto 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 otherto be an incurable partialist, and himself a universalist? Italked yesterday with a pair of philosophers: I endeavouredto show my good men that I liked everything by turns, and nothing long; that I loved the centre, but doated on the superficies; that I loved man, if men seemed to me mice andrats; 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 knowthat they existed, and heartily wished them God- speed, yet,out of my poverty of life and thought, had no word of welcomefor them when they came to see me, and could well consent totheir living in Oregon, for any claim I felt on them, it would be a great satisfaction.VOL. I. S258LECTURES.NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS.A LECTURE READ BEFORE THE SOCIETY IN AMORY HALL, ONSUNDAY, 3RD MARCH, 1844.WEIn the suburb, in the town,On the railway, in the square,Came a beam of goodness down Doubling daylight everywhere:Peace now each for malice takes,Beauty for his sinful weeds,For the angel Hope aye makes Him an angel whom she leads.HOEVER has had opportunity of acquaintance withsociety in New England during the last twenty- five years, with those middle and with those leading sections that may constitute any just representation of the character andaim of the community, will have been struck with the great activity of thought and experimenting. His attention must becommanded by the signs that the Church, or religious party,is falling from the Church nominal, and is appearing intemperance and non-resistance societies, in movements of abolitionists and of socialists, and in very significant assemblies, called Sabbath and Bible Conventions, composed ofultraists, of seekers, of all the soul of the soldiery of dissent,and meeting to call in question the authority of the Sabbath,of the priesthood, and of the Church. In these movementsnothing was more remarkable than the discontent they begot in the movers. The spirit of protest and of detachment drovethe members of these Conventions to bear testimony againstthe Church, and immediately afterward to declare their dis- content with these Conventions, their independence of theircolleagues, and their impatience of the methods whereby theywere working. They defied each other, like a congress of kings, each of whom had a realm to rule, and a way of his own that made concert unprofitable. What a fertility of projectsfor the salvation of the world! One apostle thought all menNEW ENGLAND REFORMERS. 259should 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 drinkdamnation. These made unleavened bread, and were foes to the death to fermentation. It was in vain urged by thehousewife that God made yeast as well as dough, and lovesfermentation just as dearly as He loves vegetation; that fermentation develops the saccharine element in the grain, andmakes it more palatable and more digestible. No; they wish the pure wheat, and will die but it shall not ferment. Stop,dear nature, these incessant advances of thine; let us scotch these ever- rolling wheels! Others attacked the system ofa*griculture; the use of animal manures in farming; and thetyranny of man over brute nature; these abuses polluted his food. The ox must be taken from the plough, and the horsefrom the cart, the hundred acres of the farm must be spaded,and the man must walk wherever boats and locomotives willnot carry him. Even the insect world was to be defended, —that had been too long neglected, and a society for the protection of ground- worms, slugs, and mosquitos was to beincorporated without delay. With these appeared the adeptsof hom*oeopathy, of hydropathy, of mesmerism, of phrenology,and their wonderful theories of the Christian miracles!Others assailed particular vocations, as that of the lawyer,that of the merchant, of the manufacturer, of the clergyman,of the scholar. Others attacked the institution of marriage asthe fountain of social evils. Others devoted themselves to theworrying of churches and meetings for public worship; and the fertile forms of Antinomianism among the elder Puritansseemed to have their match in the plenty of the new harvest of reform .With this din of opinion and debate there was a keenerscrutiny of institutions and domestic life than any we had known; there was sincere protesting against existing evils, andthere were changes of employment dictated by conscience.No doubt there was plentiful vapouring, and cases of backsliding might occur. But in each of these movements emergeda good result, a tendency to the adoption of simpler methods,and an assertion of the sufficiency of the private man. Thusit was directly in the spirit and genius of the age, what happened in one instance, when a Church censured andthreatened to excommunicate one of its members, on accountof the somewhat hostile part to the Church which his conscienceled him to take in the anti-slavery business, the threatened individual immediately excommunicated the Church in a publicand formal process. This has been several times repeated. It was excellent when it was done the first time, but, of course,260 LECTURE AT AMORY HALL.loses all value when it is copied. Every project in the historyof reform, no matter how violent and surprising, is goodwhen it is the dictate of a man's genius and constitution, butvery dull and suspicious when adopted from another. It isright and beautiful in any man to say, ' I will take this coat,or this book, or this measure of corn of yours,'-in whom wesee the act to be original, and to flow from the whole spiritand faith of him; for then that taking will have a giving asfree and divine: but we are very easily disposed to resist thesame generosity of speech when we miss originality and truth to character in it.There was in all the practical activities of New England, forthe last quarter of a century, a gradual withdrawal of tender consciences from the social organizations. There is observablethroughout, the contest between mechanical and spiritual methods, but with a steady tendency of the thoughtful andvirtuous 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 fullof kings. Hands off! let there be no control and no interference in the administration of the affairs of this kingdom of me. Hence the growth of the doctrine and of the party ofFree Trade, and the willingness to try that experiment, in theface of what appear incontestable facts. I confess the mottoof the Globe ' newspaper is so attractive to me that I canseldom find much appetite to read what is below it in its columns. Theworld is governed too much." So the countryis frequently affording solitary examples of resistance to the government, solitary nullifiers, who throw themselves on theirreserved rights; nay, who have reserved all their rights; whor*ply to the assessor, and to the clerk of court, that they do not knowthe State; and embarrass the courts of law by nonjuring, and the commander-in-chief of the militia by non- resistance.66The same disposition to scrutiny and dissent appeared in civil, festive, neighbourly, and domestic society. A restless,prying, conscientious criticism broke out in unexpectedquarters. Who gave me the money with which I bought my coat? Why should professional labour and that of thecounting-house be paid so disproportionately to the labour ofthe porter and wood- sawyer? This whole business of Trade gives me to pause and think, as it constitutes false relationsbetween 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 thatcommodity, I should be put on my good behaviour in allcompanies, and man would be a benefactor to man, as beingNEW ENGLAND REFORMERS. 261himself his only certificate that he had a right to those aids and services which each asked of the other. Am I not tooprotected 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 thosegymnastics which manual labour and the emergencies ofpoverty constitute? I find nothing healthful or exalting in the smooth conventions of society; I do not like the close airof saloons. I begin to suspect myself to be a prisoner, thoughtreated with all this courtesy and luxury. I pay a destructivetax in my conformity.The same insatiable criticism may be traced in the effortsfor the reform of Education. The popular education has been taxed with a want of truth and nature. It was complainedthat an education to things was not given. We are studentsof words: we are shut up in schools, and colleges, and recitation-rooms for ten or fifteen years, and come out at last with abag 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, wecannot 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 afraidof a horse, of a cow, of a dog, of a snake, of a spider. TheRoman rule was, to teach a boy nothing that he could notlearn standing. The old English rule was, ' All summer in thefield, 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 mightsecure his subsistence at all events, and not be painful to his friends and fellow- men. The lessons of science should beexperimental also. The sight of the planet through a telescope is worth all the course on astronomy; the shock of theelectric spark in the elbow outvalues all the theories; thetaste 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 fixedon our scholastic devotion to the dead languages . The ancient languages, with great beauty of structure, contain wonderfulremains of genius, which draw, and always will draw, certain like- minded 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 centuriesago) Latin and Greek had a strict relation to all the science and culture there was in Europe, and the Mathematics had amomentary importance at some era of activity in physicalscience. These things became stereotyped as education, as themanner of men is. But the Good Spirit never cared for thecolleges, and though all men and boys were now drilled in262 LECTURE AT AMORY HALL.Latin, Greek, and Mathematics, it had quite left these shellshigh and dry on the beach, and was now creating and feeding other matters at other ends of the world. But in a hundredhigh schools and colleges this warfare against common sense still goes on. Four, or gix, or ten years, the pupil is parsing Greek and Latin, and as soon as he leaves the University, as it is ludicrously styled, he shuts those books for the last time.Some thousands of young men are graduated at our colleges in this country every year, and the persons who, at forty years,still read Greek, can all be counted on your hand. I never met with ten. Four or five persons I have seen who read Plato.But is not this absurd, that the whole liberal talent of thiscountry should be directed in its best years on studies whichlead to nothing? What was the consequence? Some intelli- gent persons said or thought, ' Is that Greek and Latin somespell to conjure with, and not words of reason? If the physi- cian, 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 toaffairs.' So they jumped the Greek and Latin, and read law,medicine, or sermons, without it. To the astonishment of all,the self- made men took even ground at once with the oldest of the regular graduates, and in a few months the most conservative circles of Boston and New York had quite for- gotten who of their gownsmen was college- bred, and who was not.One tendency appears alike in the philosophical speculation and in the rudest democratical movements, through all thepetulance and all the puerility, the wish, namely, to cast asidethe superfluous, and arrive at short methods, urged, as I suppose, by an intuition that the human spirit is equal to allemergencies alone, and that man is more often injured than helped by the means he uses.I conceive this gradual casting off of material aids, and the indication of growing trust in the private, self- supplied powersof the individual, to be the affirmative principle of the recentphilosophy; and that it is feeling its own profound truth, and is reaching forward at this very hour to the happiest conclu- sions. I readily concede that in this, as in every period ofintellectual activity, there has been a noise of denial and pro- test; much was to be resisted, much was to be got rid of bythose 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 ofthe class.They are partial; they are not equal to the work they pretend.They lose their way; in the assault on the kingdom of dark-NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS. 263ness they expend all their energy on some accidental evil, andlose their sanity and power of benefit. It is of little momentthat one or two, or twenty errors of our social system be cor- rected, but of much that the man be in his senses.The criticism and attack on institutions which we have witnessed, has made one thing plain, that society gains nothingwhilst a man, not himself renovated, attempts to renovatethings around him he has become tediously good in some particular, but negligent or narrow in the rest; and hypocrisyand vanity are often the disgusting result.It is handsomer to remain in the establishment better thanthe establishment, and conduct that in the best manner, thanto make a sally against evil by some single improvement, without supporting it by a total regeneration. Do not be so vain of your one objection. Do you think there is only one? Alas!my good friend, there is no part of society or of life better than any other part. All our things are right and wrongtogether. The wave of evil washes all our institutions alike.Do you complain of our Marriage? Our marriage is no worse than our education, our diet, our trade, our social customs.Do you complain of the laws of Property? It is a pedantry togive such importance to them. Can we not play the game of life with these counters, as well as with those; in the institution of property as well as out of it? Let into it the new andrenewing principle of love, and property will be universality.No one gives the impression of superiority to the institution,which he must give who will reform it. It makes no differencewhat you say you must make me feel that you are aloof fromit; by your natural and supernatural advantages, do easily see to the end of it-do see how man can do without it. Now allmen are on one side. No man deserves to be heard againstproperty. Only Love, only an idea, is against property, as we hold it.I cannot afford to be irritable and captious, nor to waste allmy time in attacks. If I should go out of church whenever Ihear a false statement, I could never stay there five minutes.But why come out? the street is as false as the church, andwhen I get to my house, or to my manners, or to my speech,I have not got away from the lie. When we see an eagerassailant of one of these wrongs, a special reformer, we feellike asking him, What right have you, sir, to your one virtue?Is virtue piecemeal? This is a jewel amidst the rags of abeggar.In another way the right will be vindicated. In the midstof 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 at264 LECTURE AT AMORY HALL.hand, and by the new quality of character it shall put forth, it shall abrogate that old condition, law or school in whichit stands, before the law of its own mind.If partiality was one fault of the movement party, the other defect was their reliance on Association. Doubts such as thoseI have intimated drove many good persons to agitate the questions of social reform. But the revolt against the spirit ofcommerce, the spirit of aristocracy, and the inveterate abusesof cities, did not appear possible to individuals; and to dobattle against numbers, they armed themselves with numbers,and against concert, they relied on new concert.Following, or advancing beyond the ideas of St. Simon,of Fourier, and of Owen, three communities have already been formed in Massachusetts on kindred plans, and many more inthe country at large. They aim to give every member a share in the manual labour, to give an equal reward to labour and to talent, and to unite a liberal culture with an education to labour. The scheme offers, by the economies of associated labour and expense, to make every member rich on the sameamount of property that, in separate families, would leave every member poor. These new associations are composed of men and women of superior talents and sentiments; yet it may easily be questioned whether such a community will draw,except in its beginnings, the able and the good; whether thosewho have energy will not prefer their chance of superiority and power in the world to the humble certainties of the association; whether such a retreat does not promise to become an asylum to those who have tried and failed, rather than a field to the strong; and whether the members will not neces- sarily be fractions of men, because each finds that he cannot enter it without some compromise. Friendship and association are very fine things, and a grand phalanx of the best of the human race, banded for some catholic object: yes, excel- lent; but remember that no society can ever be so large as one man. He in his friendship, in his natural and momentaryassociations, doubles or multiplies himself; but in the hour in which he mortgages himself to two, or ten, or twenty, he dwarfs himself below the stature of one.But the men of less faith could not thus believe, and to such,concert appears the sole specific of strength. I have failedand you have failed, but perhaps together we shall not fail.Our housekeeping is not satisfactory to us, but perhaps aphalanx, a community, might be. Many of us have differed in opinion, and we could find no man who could make the truthplain, but possibly a college or an ecclesiastical council might.I have not been able either to persuade my brother or to prevailon myself to disuse the traffic or the potation of brandy, butNEW ENGLAND REFORMERS. 265us.perhaps a pledge of total abstinence might effectually restrainThe candidate my party votes for is not to be trusted with a dollar, but he will be honest in the Senate, for we canbring 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 themen 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 twomen, in ten men, then is concert for the first time possible,because the force which moves the world is a new quality, andcan never be furnished by adding whatever quantities of a dif- ferent kind. What is the use of the concert of the false and disunited? There can be no concert in two where there is no concert in one. When the individual is not individual, but isdual; when his thoughts look one way and his actions another;when his faith is traversed by his habits; when his will, enlightened by reason, is warped by his sense; when with one hand he rows, and with the other backs water, what concert can be?I do not wonder at the interest these projects inspire. Theworld is awaking to the idea of union, and these experiments show what it is thinking of. It is and will be magic. Men will live and communicate, and plough, and reap, and govern,as by added ethereal power, when once they are united; as in a celebrated experiment, by expiration and respiration exactlytogether, four persons lift a heavy man from the ground by the little finger only, and without sense of weight. But this union must be inward, and not one of covenants, and is to be reached by a reverse of the methods they use. The union isonly perfect when all the uniters are isolated. It is the union of friends who live in different streets or towns. Each man, ifhe attempts to join himself to others, is on all sides cramped and diminished of his proportion; and the stricter the union the smaller and the more pitiful he is. But leave him alone,to recognize in every hour and place the secret soul, he will go up and down doing the works of a true member,and to the astonishment of all, the work will be done with concert though no man spoke. Government will be adaman- tine without any governor. The union must be ideal in actual individualism.I pass to the indication in some particulars of that faith inman which the heart is preaching to us in these days, and which engages the more regard, from the consideration that the speculations of one generation are the history of the next fol- lowing.In alluding just now to our system of education, I spoke of266 LECTURE AT AMORY HALL.66the deadness of its details. But it is open to graver criticismthan the palsy of its members: it is a system of despair. The disease with which the human mind now labours is want offaith. Men do not believe in a power of education. We do not think we can speak to divine sentiments in man, and we do not try. We renounce all high aims. We believe that the defects of so many perverse and so many frivolous people who make up society are organic, and society is a hospital of incurables. A man of good sense, but of little faith, whose compassion seemed to lead him to church as often as he went there, said to me that he liked to have concerts, and fairs,and churches, and other public amusem*nts go on." I am afraid the remark is too honest, and comes from the sameorigin as the maxim of the tyrant, " If you would rule the world quietly, you must keep it amused." I notice, too, thatthe ground on which eminent public servants urge the claims of popular education is fear: This country is filling up with thousands and millions of voters, and you must educate them to keep them from our throats.' We do not believe that any education, any system of philosophy, any influence of genius,will ever give depth of insight to a superficial mind. Having settled ourselves into this infidelity, our skill is expended to procure alleviations, diversion, opiates. We adorn the victimwith manual skill, his tongue with languages, his body with inoffensive and comely manners. So have we cunningly hid the tragedy of limitation and inner death we cannot avert. Is it strange that society should be devoured by a secret melan- choly, which breaks through all its smiles, and all its gaiety and games?6But even one step farther our infidelity has gone. Itappears that some doubt is felt by good and wise men whetherreally the happiness and probity of men are increased by theculture of the mind in those disciplines to which we give thename of education. Unhappily, too, the doubt comes from scholars, from persons who have tried these methods. In theirexperience, the scholar was not raised by the sacred thoughts amongst which he dwelt, but used them to selfish ends. Hewas a profane person, and became a showman, turning hisgifts to a marketable use, and not to his own sustenance andgrowth. It was found that the intellect could be independentlydeveloped, that is, in separation from the man, as any single organ can be invigorated, and the result was monstrous. Acanine appetite for knowledge was generated, which must stillbe fed, but was never satisfied, and this knowledge not being directed on action, never took the character of substantial,humane truth, blessing those whom it entered. It gave thescholar certain powers of expression, the power of speech, theNEW ENGLAND REFORMERS. 267power of poetry, of literary art, but it did not bring him to peace, or to beneficence.When the literary class betray a destitution of faith, it is not strange that society should be disheartened and sensualizedby unbelief. What remedy? Life must be lived on a higherplane. We must go up to a higher platform, to which we arealways 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 opinionand character in men are organic. I do not recognize, besidethe class of the good and the wise, a permanent class ofsceptics, or a class of conservatives, or of malignants, or of materialists. I do not believe in two classes. You rememberthe story of the poor woman who importuned King Philip ofMacedon to grant her justice, which Philip refused: the woman exclaimed, " I appeal:" the king, astonished, asked towhom she appealed: the woman replied, " from Philip drunkto Philip sober. " The text will suit me very well. I believenot in two classes of men, but in man in two moods, in Philip drunk and Philip sober. I think, according to the good- heartedword of Plato, " Unwillingly the soul is deprived of truth."Iron conservative, miser, or thief, no man is, but by a supposednecessity, which he tolerates by shortness or torpidity of sight.The soul lets no man go without some visitations and holydaysof a diviner presence. It would be easy to show, by a narrowscanning of any man's biography, that we are not so weddedto our paltry performances of every kind, but that every manhas at intervals the grace to scorn his performances in com- paring them with his belief of what he should do, that heputs 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, whichdegrades all it has done? Genius counts all its miracles poor and short. Its own idea it never executed. The Iliad, theHamlet, the Doric column, the Roman arch, the Gothicminster, the German anthem, when they are ended, the master casts behind him. Howsinks the song in the waves of melodywhich 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. Fromthe triumphs of his art he turns with desire to this greater defeat. Let those admire who will. With silent joy he seeshimself to be capable of a beauty that eclipses all which his hands have done, all which human hands have ever done.Well, we are all the children of genius, the children of virtue,—and feel their inspirations in our happier hours. Is not every268 LECTURE AT AMORY HALL.66999man sometimes a Radical in politics? Men are Conservativeswhen they are least vigorous, or when they are most luxurious.They are Conservatives after dinner, or before taking theirrest; when they are sick, or aged: in the morning, or when their intellect or their conscience have been aroused, whenthey hear music, or when they read poetry, they are Radicals.In the circle of the rankest Tories that could be collected inEngland, Old or New, let a powerful and stimulating intellect,a man of great heart and mind, act on them, and very quickly these frozen conservators will yield to the friendly influence,these hopeless will begin to hope, these haters will begin to love, these immoveable statues will begin to spin and revolve.I cannot help recalling the fine anecdote which Warton relatesof 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 theScriblerus club, being met at his house at dinner, they agreedto rally Berkeley, who was also his guest, on his scheme atBermudas. Berkeley, having listened to the many lively things they had to say, begged to be heard in his turn, anddisplayed his plan with such an astonishing and animatingforce of eloquence and enthusiasm, that they were struckdumb, and, after some pause, rose up altogether with earnestness, exclaiming, ' Let us set out with him immediately.'Men in all ways are better than they seem. They like flattery for the moment, but they know the truth for their own. It isa foolish cowardice which keeps us from trusting them, andspeaking to them rude truth. They resent your honesty foran instant, they will thank you for it always. What is it weheartily wish of each other? Is it to be pleased and flattered?No, but to be convicted and exposed, to be shamed out of ournonsense of all kinds, and made men of, instead of ghosts andphantoms. We are weary of gliding ghost- like through theworld, which is itself so slight and unreal. We crave a senseof reality, though it come in strokes of pain. I explain so, -by this manlike love of truth, those excesses and errors intowhich souls of great vigour, 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 comestraight through the thin masquerade, and conceive a disgust at the indigence of nature: Rousseau, Mirabeau, Charles Fox,Napoleon, Byron, and I could easily add names nearer home,of raging riders, who drive their steeds so hard, in the violenceof living to forget its illusion: they would know the worst,and tread the floors of hell. The heroes of ancient and modernfame, Cimon, Themistocles, Alcibiades, Alexander, Cæsar, have treated life and fortune as a game to be well and skilfullyNEW ENGLAND REFORMERS. 269played, but the stake not to be so valued but that any time it could be held as a trifle light as air, and thrown up. Cæsar,just before the battle of Pharsalia, discourses with the Egyp- tian priest concerning the fountains of the Nile, and offers to quit the army, the empire, and Cleopatra, if he will show himthose 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 haswill he give for an erect demeanour in every company, and on each occasion. He aims at such things as his neighboursprize, and gives his days and nights, his talents and his heart,to strike a good stroke, to acquit himself in all men's sight as a man. The consideration of an eminent citizen, of a notedmerchant, of a man of mark in his profession, naval andmilitary 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 eachcandidate, that they enable him to walk erect and unashamed in the presence of some persons before whom he felt himselfinferior. Having raised himself to this rank, having establishedhis equality with class after class of those with whom he would live well, he still finds certain others before whom he cannotpossess himself, because they have somewhat fairer, somewhatgrander, somewhat purer, which extorts homage of him. Ishis ambition pure? then will his laurels and his possessions seem worthless: instead of avoiding these men who make hisfine gold dim, he will cast all behind him, and seek their society only; woo and embrace this his humiliation and mortification,until he shall know why his eye sinks, his voice is husky, and his brilliant talents are paralyzed in this presence. He is surethat the soul which gives the lie to all things will tell none.His constitution will not mislead him. If it cannot carryitself as it ought, high and unmatchable in the presence of any man, if the secret oracles whose whisper makes the sweetness and dignity of his life do here withdraw and accompany him no longer, it is time to undervalue what he has valued, todispossess himself of what he has acquired, and with Cæsar, totake 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 compensationfor a great deal of misery; they enlarge our life;-but dearerare those who reject us as unworthy, for they add anotherlife: they build a heaven before us whereof we had notdreamed, and thereby supply to us new powers out of the270 LECTURE AT AMORY HALL.recesses of the spirit, and urge us to new and unattempted performances.As every man at heart wishes the best and not inferiorsociety, wishes to be convicted of his error, and to come to himself, so he wishes that the same healing should not stop inhis thought, but should penetrate his will or active power.The selfish man suffers more from his selfishness than he fromwhom that selfishness withholds some important benefit.What he most wishes is to be lifted to some higher platform,that he may see beyond his present fear the transalpine good,so that his fear, his coldness, his custom may be broken uplike fragments of ice, melted and carried away in the greatstream of good will. Do you ask my aid? I also wish to be abenefactor. I wish more to be a benefactor and servant thanyou wish to be served by me, and surely the greatest goodfortune that could befal me is precisely to be so moved by youthat I should say, ' Take me and all mine, and use me and mine freely to your ends!' for, I could not say it, otherwisethan because a great enlargement had come to my heart andmind, which made me superior to my fortunes. Here we areparalyzed with fear; we hold on to our little properties, house and land, office and money, for the bread which they have inour experience yielded us, although we confess that our beingdoes not flow through them. We desire to be made great, we desire to be touched with that fire which shall command thisice 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 witha belief that you have a secret which it would highliest advantage us to learn, and we would force you to impart it to us,though it should bring us to prison or to worse extremity.Nothing shall warp me from the belief that every man is alover of truth. There is no pure lie, no pure malignity innature. The entertainment of the proposition of depravity is the last profligacy and profanation. There is no scepticism,no atheism but that. Could it be received into common belief,suicide would unpeople the planet. It has had a name to live in some dogmatic theology, but each man's innocence and his real liking of his neighbour have kept it a dead letter. Iremember standing at the polls one day, when the anger ofthe political contest gave a certain grimness to the faces of the independent electors, and a good man at my side looking onthe 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 theirNEW ENGLAND REFORMERS. 271blameless and in their equivocal actions, will assent, that inspite of selfishness and frivolity, the general purpose in thegreat number of persons is fidelity. The reason why any one refuses his assent to your opinion, or his aid to your benevolentdesign, is in you: he refuses to accept you as a bringer oftruth, because, though you think you have it, he feels that you have it not. You have not given him the authentic sign.If it were worth while to run into details, this general doctrine of the latent but ever- soliciting Spirit, it would beeasy to adduce illustration in particulars of a man's equalityto 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 fewyears ago, the liberal Churches complained that the Calvinistic Church denied to them the name of Christian. I think thecomplaint was confession: a religious Church would not complain. A religious man like Behmen, Fox, or Swedenborg, isnot irritated by wanting the sanction of the Church, but theChurch feels the accusation of his presence and belief.It only needs that a just man should walk in our streets, to make it appear how pitiful and inartificial a contrivance isour legislation. The man whose part is taken, and who doesnot wait for society in anything, has a power which society cannot choose but feel. The familiar experiment, called thehydrostatic paradox, in which a capillary column of waterbalances the ocean, is a symbol of the relation of one man to the whole family of men. The wise Dandamis, on hearing thelives of Socrates, Pythagoras, and Diogenes read, " judgedthem to be great men every way, excepting that they weretoo much subjected to the reverence of the laws, which to second and authorize, true virtue must abate very much of itsoriginal vigour.”And as a man is equal to the Church, and equal to the state,so he is equal to every other man. The disparities of power inmen are superficial; and all frank and searching conversation,in which a man lays himself open to his brother, apprizes eachof their radical unity. When two persons sit and converse in a thoroughly good understanding, the remark is sure to bemade, ' See how we have disputed about words!' Let a clear,apprehensive mind, such as every man knows among his friends, converse with the most commanding poetic genius,I think it would appear that there was no inequality such asmen fancy between them; that a perfect understanding, alike receiving, a like perceiving, abolished differences, and thepoet would confess that his creative imagination gave him no deep advantage, but only the superficial one, that he couldexpress himself, and the other could not; that his advantage was a knack, which might impose on indolent men, but could272 LECTURE AT AMORY HALL.not impose on lovers oftruth; for they know the tax of talent,or, what a price of greatness the power of expression too oftenpays. I believe it is the conviction of the purest men, that the net amount of man and man does not much vary. Each isincomparably superior to his companion in some faculty.His want of skill in other directions has added to his fitnessfor his own work. Each seems to have some compensationyielded to him by his infirmity, and every hindrance operates as a concentration of his force.These and the like experiences intimate that man stands instrict connection with a higher fact never yet manifested.There is power over and behind us, and we are the channels ofits communications. We seek to say thus and so, and overour head some spirit sits, which contradicts what we say. We would persuade our fellow to this or that; another self within our eyes dissuades him. That which we keep back, thisreveals. In vain we compose our faces and our words; itholds uncontrollable communication with the enemy, and he answers civilly to us, but believes the spirit. We exclaim,' There's a traitor in the house!' but at last it appears that heis the true man, and I am the traitor. This open channel tothe highest life is the first and last reality, so subtle, so quiet,yet so tenacious, that although I have never expressed thetruth, and although I have never heard the expression of itfrom any other, I know that the whole truth is here for me.What if I cannot answer your questions? I am not painedthat I cannot frame a reply to the question, What is the operation we call Providence? There lies the unspoken thing,present, omnipresent. Every time we converse, we seek totranslate it into speech, but whether we hit, or whether wemiss, we have the fact. Every discourse is an approximateanswer; but it is of small consequence that we do not get itinto verbs and nouns, whilst it abides for contemplation for ever.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 ofour success, when we obey it, and of our ruin, when we con- travene it. Men are all secret believers in it, else the wordjustice would have no meaning: they believe that the best is the true; that right is done at last, or chaos would come.rewards actions after their nature, and not after the design ofItNEW ENGLAND REFORMERS. 273the 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 orwriting epics, so only it be honest work, done to thine ownapprobation, it shall earn a reward to the senses as well as tothe thought: no matter how often defeated, you are born tovictory. 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 seehow this high will prevails without an exception or an interval,he settles himself into serenity. He can already rely on thelaws of gravity, that every stone will fall where it is due;the good globe is faithful, and carries us securely through the celestial spaces, anxious or resigned: we need not interfere tohelp 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 assistthe administration of the universe. Do not be so impatient toset the town right concerning the unfounded pretensions and the false reputation of certain men of standing. They arelabouring harder to set the town right concerning themselves,and will certainly succeed. Suppress for a few days yourcriticism on the insufficiency of this or that teacher or experimenter, and he will have demonstrated his insufficiency toall men's eyes. In like manner, let a man fall into the divinecircuits, and he is enlarged. Obedience to his genius is theonly liberating influence. We wish to escape from subjection,and a sense of inferiority-and we make self-denying ordi- nances, we drink water, we eat grass, we refuse the laws, wego 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 aswe are, is cheerfulness and courage, and the endeavour torealise our aspirations. The life of man is the true romance,which, when it is valiantly conducted, will yield the imagination a higher joy than any fiction. All around us, whatpowers are wrapped up under the coarse mattings of custom,and all wonder prevented. It is so wonderful to our neurologists that a man can see without his eyes, that it does notoccur to them that it is just as wonderful that he should see with them; and that is ever the difference between the wise and the unwise: the latter wonders at what is unusual, the wise man wonders at the usual. Shall not the heart which hasreceived so much trust the Power by which it lives? May itnot quit other leadings, and listen to the Soul that has guided it so gently, and taught it so much, secure that the future willbe worthy of the past?VOL. I. T274REPRESENTATIVE MEN.I. -USES OF GREAT MEN.IT is natural to believe in greatto be If the companions ofour childhood should turn out to be heroes, and their condition regal, it would not surprise us. All mythology opens withdemigods, and the circ*mstance 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 upheldby the veracity of good men: they make the earth wholesome.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 manage to live with superiors.We call our children and our lands by their names.names are wrought into the verbs of language, their works and effigies are in our houses, and every circ*mstance of the day recalls an anecdote of them.TheirThe search after the great is the dream of youth, and themost serious occupation of manhood. We travel into foreignparts to find his works-if possible, to get a glimpse of him.But we are put off with fortune instead. You say the Englishare practical; the Germans are hospitable; in Valencia theclimate is delicious; and in the hills of the Sacramento thereis gold for the gathering. Yes; but I do not travel to find comfortable, rich, and hospitable people, or clear sky, or ingotsthat cost too much. But if there were any magnet that wouldpoint to the countries and houses where are the persons whoare 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 bebeggars, are disgusting, like moving cheese, like hills of ants,or of fleas the more, the worse.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. Our colossal theologiesof Judaism, Christism, Buddhism, Mahometism, are the ne-USES OF GREAT MEN. 275cessary andstructural action of the human mind. The studentof history is like a man going into a warehouse to buy clothsor carpets. He fancies he has a new article. If he go to thefactory, he shall find that his new stuff still repeats the scrolls and rosettes which are found on the interior walls of thepyramids of Thebes. Our theism is the purification of the human mind. Man can paint, or make, or think nothing but man. He believes that the great material elements had theirorigin from his thought. And our philosophy finds one essence collected or distributed.If now we proceed to inquire into the kinds of service we derive from others, let us be warned of the danger of modernstudies, and begin low enough. We must not contend againstlove, or deny the substantial existence of other people. Iknow not what would happen to us. We have social strengths.Our affection towards others creates a sort of vantage or purchase which nothing will supply. I can do that by anotherwhich I cannot do alone. I can say to you what I cannot firstsay to myself. Other men are lenses through which we read our own minds. Each man seeks those of different qualityfrom his own, and such as are good of their kind; that is, heseeks other men, and the otherest. The stronger the naturethe more it is reactive. Let us have the quality pure. A littlegenius let us leave alone. A main difference betwixt men is,whether they attend their own affair or not. Man is that nobleendogenous plant which grows, like the palm, from withinoutward. His own affair, though impossible to others, he canopen with celerity and in sport. It is easy to sugar to besweet, and to nitre to be salt. We take a great deal of painsto waylay and entrap that which of itself will fall into our hands. I count him a great man who inhabits 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 truelight, and in large relations; whilst they must make painfulcorrections, and keep a vigilant eye on many sources of error.His service to us is of like sort. It costs a beautiful personno exertion to paint her image on our eyes; yet how splendid is that benefit! It costs no more for a wise soul to conveyhis quality to other men. And every one can do his best thing easiest. "Peu de moyens, beaucoup d'effet." He is great whois what he is from nature, and who never reminds us of others.But he must be related to us, and our life receive from himsome promise of explanation. I cannot tell what I wouldknow; but I have observed there are persons who, in theircharacter and actions, answer questions which I have not skillto put. One man answers some question which none of his276 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.contemporaries put, and is isolated. The past and passing religions and philosophies answer some other question. Certain men affect us as rich possibilities, but helpless to themselves and to their times-the sport, perhaps, of some instinctthat rules in the air;-they do not speak to our want. Butthe great are near; we know them at sight. They satisfyexpectation, and fall into place. What is good is effective,generative; makes for itself room, food, and allies. A soundapple produces seed, a hybrid does not. Is a man in hisplace, he is constructive, fertile, magnetic, inundating armies with his purpose, which is thus executed. The river makes itsown shores, and each legitimate idea makes its own channelsand welcome-harvests for food, institutions for expression,weapons to fight with, and disciples to explain it. The trueartist has the planet for his pedestal; the adventurer, after years of strife, has nothing broader than his own shoes.Our common discourse respects two kinds of use or servicefrom superior men. Direct giving is agreeable to the earlybelief of men; direct giving of material or metaphysical aid,as of health, eternal youth, fine senses, arts of healing, magical power, and prophecy. The boy believes there is a teacher whocan sell him wisdom. Churches believe in imputed merit.But, in strictness, we are not much cognizant of direct serving.Man is endogenous, and education is his unfolding. The aidwe have from others is mechanical, compared with the dis- coveries of nature in us. What is thus learned is delightfulin the doing, and the effect remains. Right ethics are central,and go from the soul outward. Gift is contrary to the law ofthe universe. Serving others is serving us. I must absolveme to myself. ' Mind thy affair, ' says the spirit:-' coxcomb,would you meddle with the skies, or with other people?'Indirect service is left. Menhave a pictorial or representativequality, and serve us in the intellect. ~ Behmen and Swedenborgsaw 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. Theinventors of fire, electricity, magnetism, iron, lead, glass, linen,silk, cotton; the makers of tools; the inventor of decimal notation; the geometer; the engineer; the musician, -severallymake an easy way for all, through unknown and impossibleconfusions. Each man is by secret liking connected withsome district of nature, whose agent and interpreter he is; asLinnæus, of plants; Huber, of bees; Fries, of lichens; VanMons, of pears; Dalton, of atomic forms; Euclid, of lines;Newton, of fluxions.A man is a centre for nature, running out threads of rela-USES OF GREAT MEN. 277tion through everything, 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 loverand poet. Justice has already been done to steam, to iron, to wood, to coal, to loadstone, to iodine, to corn, and cotton; buthow few materials are yet used by our arts!The massof creatures and of qualities are still hid and expectant. Itwould seem as if each waited, like the enchanted princess in fairy tales, for a destined human deliverer. Each must bedisenchanted, and walk forth to the day in human shape. Inthe history of discovery the ripe and latent truth seems to have fashioned a brain for itself. A magnet must be mademan in some Gilbert, or Swedenborg, or Oersted, before thegeneral mind can come to entertain its powers.66If we limit ourselves to the first advantages; —a sober grace adheres to the mineral and botanic kingdoms, which, in thehighest moments, comes up as the charmof nature, -theglitter of the spar, the sureness of affinity, 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 wreathof pleasures, and, by their agreeable quarrel, beguile the day of life. The eye repeats every day the first eulogy on thingsHe saw that they were good. " We know where to find them; and these performers are relished all the more after alittle experience of the pretending races. We are entitled,also, to higher advantages. Something is wanting to science until it has been humanized. The table of logarithms is onething, and its vital play in botany, music, optics, and architec- ture, another. There are advancements to numbers, anatomy,architecture, astronomy, little suspected at first, when, by union with intellect and will, they ascend into the life, and reappear in conversation, character, and politics.But this comes later. We speak now only of our acquaintance with them in their own sphere, and the way in whichthey seem to fascinate and draw to them some genius whooccupies himself with one thing all his life long. The pos- sibility of interpretation lies in the identity of the observerwith 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 anyother. And to these, their ends, all things continually ascend.The gases gather to the solid firmament; the chemic lumparrives 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 is278 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.not only representative, but participant. Like can only be known by like. The reason why he knows about them is, thathe is of them; he has just come out of nature, or from beinga 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 com- pose him. Man, made of the dust of the world, does notforget his origin; and all that is yet inanimate will one day speak and reason. Unpublished nature will have its wholesecret told. Shall we say that quartz mountains will pulverize into innumerable Werners, Von Buchs, and Beaumonts; andthe laboratory of the atmosphere holds in solution I know not what Berzeliuses and Davys?Thus, we sit by the fire, and take hold on the poles of the earth. This quasi omnipresence supplies the imbecility of ourcondition. In one of those celestial days, when heaven and earth meet and adorn each other, it seems a poverty that wecan only spend it once: we wish for a thousand heads, athousand bodies, that we might celebrate its immense beauty in many ways and places. Is this fancy? Well, in goodfaith, we are multiplied by our proxies. How easily we adopttheir labours! Every ship that comes to America got its chartfrom Columbus. Every novel is a debtor to Homer. Every carpenter who shaves with a foreplane borrows the genius of aforgotten inventor. Life is girt all round with a zodiac ofsciences, the contributions of men who have perished to addtheir point of light to our sky. Engineer, broker, jurist, phy- sician, moralist, theologian, and every man, inasmuch as hehas any science, is a definer and map-maker of the latitudesand longitudes of our condition. 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 newproperty in the old earth, as by acquiring a new planet.We are too passive in the reception of these material or semi-material aids. We must not be sacks and stomachs. Toascend one step-we are better served through our sympathy.Activity is contagious. Looking where others look, and conversing with the same things, we catch the charm which luredthem. Napoleon said, " You must not fight too often with one enemy, or you will teach him all your art of war. " Talk muchwith any man of vigorous mind, and we acquire very fast the habit of looking at things in the same light, and, on eachoccurrence, we anticipate his thought.Men are helpful through the intellect and the affections.Other help I find a false appearance. If you affect to give mebread 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: butUSES OF GREAT MEN. 279all mental and moral force is a positive good. It goes outfrom you, whether you will or not, and profits me whom you never thought of. I cannot even hear of personal vigour of any kind, great power of performance, without fresh resolu- tion. We are emulous of all that man can do. Cecil's sayingof Sir Walter Raleigh, " I know that he can toil terribly," is an electric touch. So are Clarendon'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 bythe most subtle and sharp, and of a personal courage equal to his best parts; "-of Falkland; " who was so severe anadorer of truth, that he could as easily have given himself leave to steal as to dissemble." We cannot read Plutarchwithout a tingling of the blood; and I accept the saying of the Chinese Mencius: "Asage 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 departedmen 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. There is a power in loveto divine another's destiny better than that other can, and, by heroic encouragements, hold him to his task. What hasfriendship so signal as its sublime attractionto whatever virtueis in us? Wewill never more think cheaply of ourselves, or oflife. We are piqued to some purpose, and the industry of thediggers on the railroad will not again shame us.Under this head, too, falls that homage, very pure, as I think,which all ranks pay to the hero of the day, from Coriolanusand Gracchus, down to Pitt, Lafayette, Wellington, Webster,Lamartine. Hear the shouts in the street! The people cannot see him enough. They delight in a man. Here is a headand a trunk! What a front! what eyes! Atlantean shoulders,and the whole carriage heroic, with equal inward force to guidethe great machine! This pleasure of full expression to thatwhich, in their private experience, is usually cramped and obstructed, runs, also, much higher, and is the secret of thereader's joy in literary genius. Nothing is kept back. Thereis fire enough to fuse the mountain of ore. Shakespeare's principal merit may be conveyed, in saying that he, of all men,best understands the English language, and can say what hewill. Yet these unchoked channels and floodgates of expressionare only health or fortunate constitution. Shakespeare's name suggests other, and purely intellectual benefits.Senates and sovereigns have no compliment, with theirmedals, swords, and armorial coats, like the addressing to a280 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.human being thoughts out of a certain height, and presupposing his intelligence. This honour, which is possible inpersonal intercourse scarcely twice in a lifetime, geniusperpetually pays; contented, if now and then, in a century,the proffer is accepted. The indicators of the values of matterare degraded to a sort of cooks and confectioners on theappearance of the indicators of ideas. Genius is the naturalistor geographer of the supersensible regions, and draws theirmap; and, by acquainting us with new fields of activity, coolsour affection for the old. These are at once accepted as the reality, ofwhich the world we have conversed with is the show.We go to the gymnasium and the swimming- school to see the power and beauty of the body; there is the like pleasure,and a higher benefit, from witnessing intellectual feats of allkinds, as, feats of memory, of mathematical combination,great power of abstraction, the transmutings of the imagination, even versatility and concentration, as these acts exposethe invisible organs and members of the mind, which respond,member for member, to the parts of the body. For we thusenter a new gymnasium, and learn to choose men by theirtruest marks, taught, with Plato, " to choose those who can,without aid from the eyes, or any other sense, proceed to truth and to being." Foremost among these activities are thesummersaults, spells, and resurrections, wrought by the imagination. When this wakes, a man seems to multiply ten times or a thousand times his force. It opens the delicioussense of indeterminate size, and inspires an audacious mentalhabit. We are as elastic as the gas of gunpowder, and asentence in a book, or a word dropped in conversation, setsfree our fancy, and instantly our heads are bathed withgalaxies, and our feet tread the floor of the Pit. And thisbenefit is real, because we are entitled to these enlargements,and, once having passed the bounds, shall never again be quite the miserable pedants we were.The high functions of the intellect are so allied, that some imaginative power usually appears in all eminent minds, evenin arithmeticians of the first class, but especially in meditative men of an intuitive habit of thought. This class serve us, sothat they have the perception of identity and the perception ofreaction. The eyes of Plato, Shakespeare, Swedenborg, Goethe,never shut on either of these laws. The perception of these laws is a kind of metre of the mind. Little minds are littlethrough failure to see them.Even these feasts have their surfeit. Our delight in reasondegenerates into idolatry of the herald. Especially when amind of powerful method has instructed men, we find the examples of oppression. The dominion of Aristotle, thePtolemaic astronomy, the credit of Luther, of Bacon, of LockeUSES OF GREAT MEN. 281-in religion, the history of hierarchies, of saints, and the sects which have taken the name of each founder, are in point.Alas! every man is such a victim. The imbecility of men is always inviting the impudence of power. It is the delight ofvulgar talent to dazzle and to bind the beholder. But truegenius seeks to defend us from itself. True genius will not im- poverish, but will liberate, and add new senses. If a wise manshould appear in our village, he would create, in those who conversed with him, a new consciousness of wealth, by openingtheir eyes to unobserved advantages; he would establish a senseof immoveable equality, calm us with assurances that we couldnot be cheated; as every one would discern the checks and .guaranties of condition. The rich would see their mistakesand poverty, the poor their escapes and their resources.But nature brings all this about in due time. Rotation isher remedy. The soul is impatient of masters, and eager for change. Housekeepers say of a domestic who has been valuable, ' She had lived with me long enough.' We aretendencies, or rather, symptoms, and none of us complete.We touch and go, and sip the foam of many lives. Rotation is the law of nature. When nature removes a great man,people explore the horizon for a successor; but none comes,and none will. His class is extinguished with him. In some other and quite different field the next man will appear; not Jefferson, not Franklin, but now a great salesman; then aroad-contractor; then a student of fishes; then a buffalohunting explorer; or a semi- savage western general. Thus we make a stand against our rougher masters, but against the bestthere is a finer remedy. The power which they communicateis not theirs. When we are exalted by ideas, we do not owe this to Plato, but to the idea, to which also Plato was debtor.I must not forget that we have a special debt to a single class. Life is a scale of degrees.our great men are wide intervals.attached themselves to a few persons, who, either by thequality of that idea they embodied, or by the largeness of their reception, were entitled to the position of leaders and lawgivers. These teach us the qualities of primary nature,—admit us to the constitution of things. We swim, day by day,on a river of delusions, and are effectually amused with housesand towns in the air, of which the men about us are dupes.But life is a sincerity. In lucid intervals we say, ' Let therebe an entrance opened for me into realities; I have worn the fool's cap too long.' We will know the meaning of oureconomies and politics. Give us the cipher, and, if persons and things are scores of a celestial music, let us read off thestrains . We have been cheated of our reason; yet there haveBetween rank and rank ofMankind have, in all ages,282 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.been sane men who enjoyed a rich and related existence.What they know, they know for us. With each new mind, anew secret of nature transpires; nor can the Bible be closeduntil the last great man is born. These men correct thedelirium of the animal spirits, make us considerate, and engage us to new aims and powers. The veneration of mankind selectsthese for the highest place. Witness the multitude of statues,pictures, and memorials which recall their genius in every city, village, house, and ship:-Ever their phantoms arise before us,Our loftier brothers, but one in blood;At bed and table they lord it o'er us,With looks of beauty and words of good .How to illustrate the distinctive benefit of ideas, the servicerendered by those who introduce moral truths into the generalmind?--I am plagued, in all my living, with a perpetual tariffof prices. If I work in my garden, and prune an apple-tree, Iam well enough entertained, and could continue indefinitelyin the like occupation. But it comes to mind that a day isgone, and I have got this precious nothing done. I go to Boston or New York, and run up and down on my affairs:they are sped, but so is the day. Iamvexed by the recollectionof this price I have paid for a trifling advantage. I remember thepeau d'ane, on which whoso sat should have his desire, buta piece of the skin was gone for every wish. Igo to a convention of philanthropists. Do what I can, I cannot keep myeyes off the clock. But if there should appear in the companysome gentle soul who knows little of persons or parties, of Carolina or Cuba, but who announces a law that disposes theseparticulars, and so certifies me of the equity which checkmatesevery false player, bankrupts every self- seeker, and apprizesme of my independence on any conditions of country, or time,or human body, that man liberates me; I forget the clock. Ipass out of the sore relation to persons. I amhealed of my hurts. I am made immortal by apprehending my possessionof incorruptible goods. Here is great competition of rich and poor. We live in a market, where is only so much wheat, orwool, or land; and if I have so much more, every other musthave so much less. I seem to have no good without breach ofgood manners. Nobody is glad in the gladness of another,and our system is one of war, of an injurious superiority.Every child of the Saxon race is educated to wish to be first.It is our system; and a man comes to measure his greatness by the regrets, envies, and hatreds of his competitors. But inthese new fields there is room: here are no self- esteems, no exclusions.USES OF GREAT MEN. 283I admire great men of all classes, those who stand for facts,and for thoughts; I like rough and smooth, " Scourges of God," and " Darlings of the human race." I like the firstCæsar; and Charles V., of Spain; and Charles XII. , of Sweden; Richard Plantagenet; and Bonaparte, in France. Iapplaud a sufficient man, an officer equal to his office; captains,ministers, senators. I like a master standing firm on legs ofiron, well-born, rich, handsome, eloquent, loaded with advan- tages, drawing all men by fascination into tributaries andsupporters of his power. Sword and staff, or talents swordlike or staff-like, carry on the work of the world. But I findhim greater, when he can abolish himself, and all heroes, byletting in this element of reason, irrespective of persons; this subtiliser, and irresistible upward force, into our thought,destroying individualism; the power so great, that the potentate is nothing. Then he is a monarch, who gives a constitution to his people; a pontiff, who preaches the equality of souls,and releases his servants from their barbarous homages; anemperor, who can spare his empire.But I intended to specify, with a little minuteness, two or three points of service. Nature never spares the opium ornepenthe; but, wherever she mars her creature with somedeformity or defect, lays her poppies plentifully on the bruise,and the sufferer goes joyfully through life, ignorant of the ruin,and incapable of seeing it, though all the world point their finger at it every day. The worthless and offensive membersof society, whose existence is a social pest, invariably think themselves the most ill-used people alive, and never get overtheir astonishment at the ingratitude and selfishness of theircontemporaries . Our globe discovers its hidden_virtues, not only in heroes and archangels, but in gossips and nurses. Isit not a rare contrivance that lodged the due inertia in everycreature, the conserving, resisting energy, the anger at beingwaked or changed? Altogether independent of the intellectual force in each, is the pride of opinion, the security that we areright. Not the feeblest grandame, not a mowing idiot, butuses what spark of perception and faculty is left, to chuckleand triumph in his or her opinion over the absurdities of all the rest. Difference from me is the measure of absurdity.Not one has a misgiving of being wrong. Was it not a brightthought that made things cohere with this bitumen, fastest ofcements? But, in the midst of this chuckle of self- gratula- tion, some figure goes by, which Thersites too can love and admire. This is he that should marshal us the way we weregoing. There is no end to his aid. Without Plato, we shouldalmost lose our faith in the possibility of a reasonable book.284 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.We seem to want but one, but we want one. We love to associate with heroic persons, since our receptivity is unlimited;and, with the great, our thoughts and manners easily becomegreat. We are all wise in capacity, though so few in energy.There needs but one wise man in a company, and all are wise,so rapid is the contagion.Great men are thus a collyrium to clear our eyes fromegotism, and enable us to see other people and their works.But there are vices and follies incident to whole populationsand ages. Men resemble their contemporaries, even more thantheir progenitors. It is observed in old couples, or in persons who have been housemates for a course of years, that theygrow alike; and, if they should live long enough, we shouldnot be able to know them apart. Nature abhors these complaisances, which threaten to melt the world into a lump, andhastens to break up such maudlin agglutinations. The likeassimilation goes on between men of one town, of one sect, of one political party; and the ideas of the time are in the air,and infect all who breathe it. Viewed from any high point,this city of New York, yonder city of London, the westerncivilization, would seem a bundle of insanities. We keep eachother in countenance, and exasperate by emulation the frenzy of the time. The shield against the stingings of conscience, isthe universal practice, or our contemporaries. Again; it is very easy to be as wise and good as your companions. Welearn of our contemporaries what they know, without effort,and almost through the pores of the skin. We catch it by sympathy, or, as a wife arrives at the intellectual and moral elevations of her husband. But we stop where they stop.Very hardly can we take another step. The great, or such ashold of nature, and transcend fashions, by their fidelity to universal ideas, are saviours from these federal errors, anddefend us from our contemporaries. They are the exceptions which we want, where all grows alike. A foreign greatness is the antidote for cabalism.Thus we feed on genius, and refresh ourselves from too muchconversation with our mates, and exult in the depth of nature in that direction in which he leads us. What indemnificationis one great man for populations of pigmies! Every mother wishes one son a genius, though all the rest should be mediocre.But a new danger appears in the excess of influence of thegreat man. His attractions warp us from our place. Wehave become underlings and intellectual suicides. Ah! yonder in the horizon is our help:-other great men, new qualities,counterweights and checks on each other. We cloy of thehoney of each peculiar greatness. Every hero becomes a boreat last. Perhaps Voltaire was not bad-hearted, yet he said ofUSES OF GREAT MEN. 28566the good Jesus, even, “ I pray you, let me never hear that man's name again." They cry up the virtues of George Washington. Damn George Washington!" is the poor Jaco- bin's whole speech and confutation. But it is human nature'sindispensable defence. The centripetence augments the centrifugence. We balance one man with his opposite, and the health of the state depends on the see- saw.There is, however, a speedy limit to the use of heroes.Every genius is defended from approach by quantities of unavailableness. They are very attractive, and seem at adistance our own: but we are hindered on all sides fromapproach. The more we are drawn, the more we are repelled.There is something not solid in the good that is done for us.The best discovery the discoverer makes for himself. It has something unreal for his companion, until he too has substantiated it. It seems as if the Deity dressed each soul which he sends into nature in certain virtues and powers not communicable to other men, and, sending it to perform one more turnthrough the circle of beings, wrote " Not transferable," andGoodfor this trip only," on these garments of the soul. There is somewhat deceptive about the intercourse of minds. Theboundaries are invisible, but they are never crossed. There issuch good will to impart, and such good will to receive, that each threatens to become the other; but the law of individuality collects its secret strength: you are you, and I am I,and so we remain.66For nature wishes everything to remain itself; and, whilstevery individual strives to grow and exclude, and to excludeand grow, to the extremities of the universe, and to impose thelaw of its being on every other creature, nature steadily aims to protect each against every other. Each is self-defended.Nothing is more marked than the power by which individualsare guarded from individuals, in a world where every benefactorbecomes so easily a malefactor, only by continuation of hisactivity into places where it is not due; where children seemso much at the mercy of their foolish parents, and where almostall men are too social and interfering. We rightly speak of the guardian angels of children. How superior in their securityfrom infusions of evil persons, from vulgarity and secondthought! They shed their own abundant beauty on the objects they behold. Therefore they are not at the mercy of suchpoor educators as we adults. If we huff and chide them, they soon come not to mind it, and get a self-reliance; and if weindulge them to folly, they learn the limitation elsewhere.We need not fear excessive influence. A more generoustrust is permitted. Serve the great. Stick at no humiliation.Grudge no office thou canst render. Be the limb of their body,286 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.the breath of their mouth. Compromise thy egotism. Whocares for that, so thou gain aught wider and nobler? Nevermind the taunt of Boswellism: the devotion may easily begreater than the wretched pride which is guarding its ownskirts. Be another: not thyself, but a Platonist; not a soul,but a Christian; not a naturalist, but a Cartesian; not a poet,but a Shakesperian. In vain, the wheels of tendency will notstop, nor will all the forces of inertia, fear, or of love itself,hold thee there. On, and for ever onward! The microscopeobserves a monad or wheel- insect among the infusories circulating in water. Presently, a dot appears on the animal, whichenlarges to a slit, and it becomes two perfect animals. Theever-proceeding detachment appears not less in all thought,and in society. Children think they cannot live without theirparents. But, long before they are aware of it, the black dothas appeared, and the detachment taken place. Any accidentwill now reveal to them their independence.But great men:-the word is injurious. Is there caste? is there fate? What becomes of the promise to virtue? Thethoughtful youth laments the superfotation of nature. ' Gene- rous and handsome, ' he says, ' is your hero; but look at yonder poor Paddy, whose country is his wheelbarrow; look at hiswhole nation of Paddies.' Why are the masses, from the dawn of history down, food for knives and powder? The ideadignifies a few leaders, who have sentiment, opinion, love, self- devotion; and they make war and death sacred; -but what for the wretches whom they hire and kill? The cheapness of man is everyday's tragedy. It is as real a loss that others should below as that we should be low; for we must have society.Is it a reply to these suggestions, to say society is aPestalozzian school: all are teachers and pupils in turn. Weare equally served by receiving and by imparting. Men whoknow the same things are not long the best company for eachother. But bring to each an intelligent person of anotherexperience, and it is as if you let off water from a lake bycutting a lower basin. It seems a mechanical advantage, andgreat benefit it is to each speaker, as he can now paint out histhought to himself. We pass very fast, in our personal moods,from dignity to dependence. And if any appear never toassume the chair, but always to stand and serve, it is becausewe do not see the company in a sufficiently long period for thewhole rotation of parts to come about. As to what we call the masses, and common men; -there are no common men. Allmen are at last of a size; and true art is only possible on theconviction that every talent has its apotheosis somewhere.Fair play, and an open field, and freshest laurels to all whoUSES OF GREAT MEN. 287have won them! But heaven reserves an equal scope for everycreature. Each is uneasy until he has produced his private ray unto the concave sphere, and beheld his talent also in itslast nobility and exaltation.The heroes of the hour are relatively great: of a fastergrowth; or they are such, in whom, at the moment of success,a quality is ripe which is then in request. Other days will demand other qualities. Some rays escape the common observer,and want a finely adapted eye. Ask the great man if there benone greater. His companions are; and not the less great,but the more, that society cannot see them. Nature neversends a great man into the planet, without confiding the secret to another soul.TheOne gracious fact emerges from these studies-that there is true ascension in our love. The reputations of the nineteenthcentury will one day be quoted to prove its barbarism.genius of humanity is the real subject whose biography is written in our annals. We must infer much, and supply manychasms in the record. The history of the universe is sympto- matic, and life is mnemonical. No man, in all the procession of famous men, is reason or illumination, or that essence wewere looking for; but is an exhibition, in some quarter, of new possibilities. Could we one day complete the immense figure which these flagrant points compose! The study of many individuals leads us to an elemental region wherein the individual is lost, or wherein all touch by their summits.Thought and feeling, that break out there, cannot be impounded by any fence of personality. This is the key to the power of the greatest men--their spirit diffuses itself. A new quality of mind travels by night and by day, in concentric circles from its origin, and publishes itself byunknown methods: the union of all minds appears intimate: what gets admission to one,cannot be kept out of any other: the smallest acquisition of truth or of energy, in any quarter, is so much good to the commonwealth of souls. If the disparities of talent andposition vanish when the individuals are seen in the durationwhich is necessary to complete the career of each, even more swiftly the seeming injustice disappears when we ascend to the central identity of all the individuals, and know that they are made of the substance which ordaineth and doeth.The genius of humanity is the right point of view of history.The qualities abide; the men who exhibit them have nowmore,now less, and pass away; the qualities remain on anotherbrow. No experience is more familiar. Once you saw phoenixes:they are gone; the world is not therefore disenchanted. Thevessels on which you read sacred emblems turn out to be common pottery; but the sense of the pictures is sacred, and288 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.you may still read them transferred to the walls of the world.For a time, our teachers serve us personally, as metres or milestones of progress. Once they were angels of knowledge,and their figures touched the sky. Then we drew near, sawtheir means, culture, and limits; and they yielded their placeto other geniuses. Happy, if a few names remain so high, thatwe have not been able to read them nearer, and age andcomparison have not robbed them of a ray. But, at last, weshall cease to look in men for completeness, and shall contentourselves with their social and delegated quality. All thatrespects the individual is temporary and prospective, like the individual himself, who is ascending out of his limits into acatholic existence. We have never come at the true and bestbenefit of any genius, so long as we believe him an original force. In the moment when he ceases to help us as a cause, hebegins to help us more as an effect. Then he appears as anexponent of a vaster mind and will. The opaque self becomes transparent with the light of the First Cause.Yet, within the limits of human education and agency, we may say, great men exist that there may be greater men. Thedestiny of organized nature is amelioration, and who can tell its limits? It is for man to tame the chaos; on every side,whilst he lives, to scatter the seeds of science and of song, thatclimate, corn, animals, men, may be milder, and the germs of love and benefit may be multiplied.

II.-PLATO; OR, THE PHILOSOPHER.

AMONG secular books, Plato only is entitled to Omar's fanatical compliment to the Koran, when he said, "Burn the libraries; for their value is in this book." These sentences contain the culture of nations; these are the corner-stone of schools; these are the fountain-head of literatures. A discipline it is in logic, arithmetic, taste, symmetry, poetry, language, rhetoric, ontology, morals or practical wisdom. There was never such range of speculation. Out of Plato come all things that are still written and debated among men of thought. Great havoc makes he among our originalities. We have reached the mountain from which all these drift boulders were detached. The Bible of the learned for twenty-two hundred years, every brisk young man who says in succession fine things to each reluctant generation,- Boethius, Rabelais, Erasmus, Bruno, Locke, Rousseau, Alfieri, Coleridge,- is some reader of Plato, translating into the vernacular, wittily, his good things. Even the men of grander proportion suffer some deduction from the misfortune (shall I say?) of coming after this exhausting generalizer. St. Augustine, Copernicus, Newton, Behmen, Swedenborg, Goethe, are likewise his debtors and must say after him. For it is fair to credit the broadest generalizer with all the particulars deducible from his thesis.

Plato is philosophy, and philosophy, Plato,- at once the glory and the shame of mankind, since neither Saxon nor Roman have availed to add any idea to his categories. No wife, no children had he, and the thinkers of all civilized nations are his posterity and are tinged with his mind. How many great men Nature is incessantly sending up out of night, to be his men,- Platonists! the Alexandrians, a constellation of genius; the Elizabethans, not less; Sir Thomas More, Henry More, John Hales, John Smith, Lord Bacon, Jeremy Taylor, Ralph Cudworth, Sydenham, Thomas Taylor; Marcilius Ficinus and Picus Mirandola. Calvinism is in his Phaedo: Christianity is in it. Mahometanism draws all its philosophy, in its hand-book of morals, the Akhlak-y-Jalaly, from him. Mysticism finds in Plato all its texts. This citizen of a town in Greece is no villager nor patriot. An Englishman reads and says, "how English!" a German- "how Teutonic!" an Italian- "how Roman and how Greek!" As they say that Helen of Argos had that universal beauty that every body felt related to her, so Plato seems to a reader in New England an American genius. His broad humanity transcends all sectional lines.

This range of Plato instructs us what to think of the vexed question concerning his reputed works,- what are genuine, what spurious. It is singular that wherever we find a man higher by a whole head than any of his contemporaries, it is sure to come into doubt what are his real works. Thus Homer, Plato, Raffaelle, Shakespeare. For these men magnetize their contemporaries, so that their companions can do for them what they can never do for themselves; and the great man does thus live in several bodies, and write, or paint or act, by many hands; and after some time it is not easy to say what is the authentic work of the master and what is only of his school.

Plato, too, like every great man, consumed his own times. What is a great man but one of great affinities, who takes up into himself all arts, sciences, all knowables, as his food? He can spare nothing; he can dispose of every thing. What is not good for virtue, is good for knowledge. Hence his contemporaries tax him with plagiarism. But the inventor only knows how to borrow; and society is glad to forget the innumerable laborers who ministered to this architect, and reserves all its gratitude for him. When we are praising Plato, it seems we are praising quotations from Solon and Sophron and Philolaus. Be it so. Every book is a quotation; and every house is a quotation out of all forests and mines and stone quarries; and every man is a quotation from all his ancestors. And this grasping inventor puts all nations under contribution.

Plato absorbed the learning of his times,- Philolaus, Timaeus, Heracl*tus, Parmenides, and what else; then his master, Socrates; and finding himself still capable of a larger synthesis,- beyond all example then or since,- he traveled into Italy, to gain what Pythagoras had for him; then into Egypt, and perhaps still farther East, to import the other element, which Europe wanted, into the European mind. This breadth entitles him to stand as the representative of philosophy. He says, in the Republic, "Such a genius as philosophers must of necessity have, is wont but seldom in all its parts to meet in one man, but its different parts generally spring up in different persons." Every man who would do anything well, must come to it from a higher ground. A philosopher must be more than a philosopher. Plato is clothed with the powers of a poet, stands upon the highest place of the poet, and (though I doubt he wanted the decisive gift of lyric expression), mainly is not a poet because he chose to use the poetic gift to an ulterior purpose.

Great geniuses have the shortest biographies. Their cousins can tell you nothing about them. They lived in their writings, and so their house and street life was trivial and commonplace. If you would know their tastes and complexions, the most admiring of their readers most resembles them. Plato especially has no external biography. If he had lover, wife, or children, we hear nothing of them. He ground them all into paint. As a good chimney burns its smoke, so a philosopher converts the value of all his fortunes into his intellectual performances.

He was born 427 A.C., about the time of the death of Pericles; was of patrician connection in his times and city, and is said to have had an early inclination for war, but, in his twentieth year, meeting with Socrates, was easily dissuaded from this pursuit and remained for ten years his scholar, until the death of Socrates. He then went to Megara, accepted the invitations of Dion and of Dionysius to the court of Sicily, and went thither three times, though very capriciously treated. He traveled into Italy; then into Egypt, where he stayed a long time; some say three,- some say thirteen years. It is said he went farther, into Babylonia: this is uncertain. Returning to Athens, he gave lessons in the Academy to those whom his fame drew thither; and died, as we have received it, in the act of writing, at eighty-one years.

But the biography of Plato is interior. We are to account for the supreme elevation of this man in the intellectual history of our race,- how it happens that in proportion to the culture of men they become his scholars; that, as our Jewish Bible has implanted itself in the tabletalk and household life of every man and woman in the European and American nations, so the writings of Plato have preoccupied every school of learning, every lover of thought, every church, every poet,- making it impossible to think, on certain levels, except through him. He stands between the truth and every man's mind, and has almost impressed language and the primary forms of thought with his name and seal. I am struck, in reading him, with the extreme modernness of his style and spirit. Here is the germ of that Europe we know so well, in its long history of arts and arms; here are all its traits, already discernible in the mind of Plato,- and in none before him. It has spread itself since into a hundred histories, but has added no new element. This perpetual modernness is the measure of merit in every work of art; since the author of it was not misled by any thing short-lived or local, but abode by real and abiding traits. How Plato came thus to be Europe, and philosophy, and almost literature, is the problem for us to solve.

This could not have happened without a sound, sincere and catholic man, able to honor, at the same time, the ideal, or laws of the mind, and fate, or the order of nature. The first period of a nation, as of an individual, is the period of unconscious strength. Children cry, scream and stamp with fury, unable to express their desires. As soon as they can speak and tell their want and the reason of it, they become gentle. In adult life, whilst the perceptions are obtuse, men and women talk vehemently and superlatively, blunder and quarrel: their manners are full of desperation; their speech is full of oaths. As soon as, with culture, things have cleared up a little, and they see them no longer in lumps and masses but accurately distributed, they desist from that weak vehemence and explain their meaning in detail. If the tongue had not been framed for articulation, man would still be a beast in the forest. The same weakness and want, on a higher plane, occurs daily in the education of ardent young men and women. "Ah! you don't understand me; I have never met with any one who comprehends me": and they sigh and weep, write verses and walk alone,- fault of power to express their precise meaning. In a month or two, through the favor of their good genius, they meet some one so related as to assist their volcanic estate, and, good communication being once established, they are thenceforward good citizens. It is ever thus. The progress is to accuracy, to skill, to truth, from blind force.

There is a moment in the history of every nation, when, proceeding out of this brute youth, the perceptive powers reach their ripeness and have not yet become microscopic: so that man, at that instant, extends across the entire scale, and, with his feet still planted on the immense forces of night, converses by his eyes and brain with solar and stellar creation. That is the moment of adult health, the culmination of power.

Such is the history of Europe, in all points; and such in philosophy. Its early records, almost perished, are of the immigrations from Asia, bringing with them the dreams of barbarians; a confusion of crude notions of morals and of natural philosophy, gradually subsiding through the partial insight of single teachers.

Before Pericles came the Seven Wise Masters, and we have the beginnings of geometry, metaphysics and ethics: then the partialists,- deducing the origin of things from flux or water, or from air, or from fire, or from mind. All mix with these causes mythologic pictures. At last comes Plato, the distributor, who needs no barbaric point, or tattoo, or whooping; for he can define. He leaves with Asia the vast and superlative; he is the arrival of accuracy and intelligence. "He shall be as a god to me, who can rightly divide and define."

This defining is philosophy. Philosophy is the account which the human mind gives to itself of the constitution of the world. Two cardinal facts lie forever at the base; the one, and the two: 1. Unity, or Identity; and, 2. Variety. We unite all things by perceiving the law which pervades them; by perceiving the superficial differences and the profound resemblances. But every mental act,- this very perception of identity or oneness, recognizes the difference of things. Oneness and otherness. It is impossible to speak or to think without embracing both.

The mind is urged to ask for one cause of many effects; then for the cause of that; and again the cause, diving still into the profound: self-assured that it shall arrive at an absolute and sufficient one,- a one that shall be all. "In the midst of the sun is the light, in the midst of the light is truth, and in the midst of truth is the imperishable being," say the Vedas. All philosophy, of East and West, has the same centripetence. Urged by an opposite necessity, the mind returns from the one to that which is not one, but other or many; from cause to effect; and affirms the necessary existence of variety, the self-existence of both, as each is involved in the other. These strictly-blended elements it is the problem of thought to separate and to reconcile. Their existence is mutually contradictory and exclusive; and each so fast slides into the other that we can never say what is one, and what it is not. The Proteus is as nimble in the highest as in the lowest grounds; when we contemplate the one, the true, the good,- as in the surfaces and extremities of matter.

In all nations there are minds which incline to dwell in the conception of the fundamental Unity. The raptures of prayer and ecstasy of devotion lose all being in one Being. This tendency finds its highest expression in the religious writings of the East, and chiefly in the Indian Scriptures, in the Vedas, the Bhagavat Geeta, and the Vishnu Purana. Those writings contain little else than this idea, and they rise to pure and sublime strains in celebrating it.

The Same, the Same: friend and foe are of one stuff; the ploughman, the plough and the furrow are of one stuff; and the stuff is such and so much that the variations of form are unimportant. "You are fit" (says the supreme Krishna to a sage) "to apprehend that you are not distinct from me. That which I am, thou art, and that also is this world, with its gods and heroes and mankind. Men contemplate distinctions, because they are stupefied with ignorance." "The words I and mine constitute ignorance. What is the great end of all, you shall now learn from me. It is soul,- one in all bodies, pervading, uniform, perfect, preeminent over nature, exempt from birth, growth and decay, omnipresent, made up of true knowledge, independent, unconnected with unrealities, with name, species and the rest, in time past, present and to come. The knowledge that this spirit, which is essentially one, is in one's own and in all other bodies, is the wisdom of one who knows the unity of things. As one diffusive air, passing through the perforations of a flute, is distinguished as the notes of a scale, so the nature of the Great Spirit is single, though its forms be manifold, arising from the consequences of acts. When the difference of the investing form, as that of god or the rest, is destroyed, there is no distinction." "The whole world is but a manifestation of Vishnu, who is identical with all things, and is to be regarded by the wise as not differing from, but as the same as themselves. I neither am going nor coming; nor is my dwelling in any one place; nor art thou, thou; nor are others, others; nor am I, I." As if he had said, "All is for the soul, and the soul is Vishnu; and animals and stars are transient paintings; and light is whitewash; and durations are deceptive; and form is imprisonment; and heaven itself a decoy." That which the soul seeks is resolution into being above form, out of Tartarus and out of heaven,- liberation from nature.

If speculation tends thus to a terrific unity, in which all things are absorbed, action tends directly backwards to diversity. The first is the course or gravitation of mind; the second is the power of nature. Nature is the manifold. The unity absorbs, and melts or reduces. Nature opens and creates. These two principles reappear and interpenetrate all things, all thought; the one, the many. One is being; the other, intellect: one is necessity; the other, freedom: one, rest; the other, motion: one, power; the other, distribution: one, strength; the other, pleasure: one, consciousness; the other, definition: one, genius; the other, talent: one, earnestness; the other, knowledge: one, possession; the other, trade: one, caste; the other, culture: one, king; the other, democracy: and, if we dare carry these generalizations a step higher, and name the last tendency of both, we might say, that the end of the one is escape from organization,- pure science; and the end of the other is the highest instrumentality, or use of means, or executive deity.

Each student adheres, by temperament and by habit, to the first or to the second of these gods of the mind. By religion, he tends to unity; by intellect, or by the senses, to the many. A too rapid unification, and an excessive appliance to parts and particulars, are the twin dangers of speculation.

To this partiality the history of nations corresponded. The country of unity, of immovable institutions, the seat of a philosophy delighting in abstractions, of men faithful in doctrine and in practice to the idea of a deaf, unimplorable, immense fate, is Asia; and it realizes this faith in the social institution of caste. On the other side, the genius of Europe is active and creative: it resists caste by culture; its philosophy was a discipline; it is a land of arts, inventions, trade, freedom. If the East loved infinity, the West delighted in boundaries.

European civility is the triumph of talent, the extension of system, the sharpened understanding, adaptive skill, delight in forms, delight in manifestation, in comprehensible results. Pericles, Athens, Greece, had been working in this element with the joy of genius not yet chilled by any foresight of the detriment of an excess. They saw before them no sinister political economy; no ominous Malthus; no Paris or London; no pitiless subdivision of classes,- the doom of the pin-makers, the doom of the weavers, of dressers, of stockingers, of carders, of spinners, of colliers; no Ireland; no Indian caste, superinduced by the efforts of Europe to throw it off. The understanding was in its health and prime. Art was in its splendid novelty. They cut the Pentelican marble as if it were snow, and their perfect works in architecture and sculpture seemed things of course, not more difficult than the completion of a new ship at the Medford yards, or new mills at Lowell. These things are in course, and may be taken for granted. The Roman legion, Byzantine legislation, English trade, the saloons of Versailles, the cafes of Paris, the steam-mill, steamboat, steam-coach, may all be seen in perspective; the town-meeting, the ballot-box, the newspaper and cheap press.

Meantime, Plato, in Egypt and in Eastern pilgrimages, imbibed the idea of one Deity, in which all things are absorbed. The unity of Asia and the detail of Europe; the infinitude of the Asiatic soul and the defining, result-loving, machine-making, surface-seeking, opera-going Europe,- Plato came to join, and, by contact, to enhance the energy of each. The excellence of Europe and Asia are in his brain. Metaphysics and natural philosophy expressed the genius of Europe; he substructs the religion of Asia, as the base.

In short, a balanced soul was born, perceptive of the two elements. It is as easy to be great as to be small. The reason why we do not at once believe in admirable souls is because they are not in our experience. In actual life, they are so rare as to be incredible; but primarily there is not only no presumption against them, but the strongest presumption in favor of their appearance. But whether voices were heard in the sky, or not; whether his mother or his father dreamed that the infant man-child was the son of Apollo; whether a swarm of bees settled on his lips, or not;- a man who could see two sides of a thing was born. The wonderful synthesis so familiar in nature; the upper and the under side of the medal of Jove; the union of impossibilities, which reappears in every object; its real and its ideal power,- was now also transferred entire to the consciousness of a man.

The balanced soul came. If he loved abstract truth, he saved himself by propounding the most popular of all principles, the absolute good, which rules rulers, and judges the judge. If he made transcendental distinctions, he fortified himself by drawing all his illustrations from sources disdained by orators and polite conversers; from mares and puppies; from pitchers and soup-ladles; from cooks and criers; the shops of potters, horse-doctors, butchers and fishmongers. He cannot forgive in himself a partiality, but is resolved that the two poles of thought shall appear in his statement. His argument and his sentence are self-imposed and spherical. The two poles appear; yes, and become two hands, to grasp and appropriate their own.

Every great artist has been such by synthesis. Our strength is transitional, alternating; or, shall I say, a thread of two strands. The sea-shore, sea seen from shore, shore seen from sea; the taste of two metals in contact; and our enlarged powers at the approach and at the departure of a friend; the experience of poetic creativeness, which is not found in staying at home, nor yet in traveling, but in transitions from one to the other, which must therefore be adroitly managed to present as much transitional surface as possible; this command of two elements must explain the power and the charm of Plato. Art expresses the one or the same by the different. Thought seeks to know unity in unity; poetry to show it by variety; that is, always by an object or symbol. Plato keeps the two vases, one of aether and one of pigment, at his side, and invariably uses both. Things added to things, as statistics, civil history, are inventories. Things used as language are inexhaustibly attractive. Plato turns incessantly the obverse and the reverse of the medal of Jove.

To take an example:- The physical philosophers had sketched each his theory of the world; the theory of atoms, of fire, of flux, of spirit; theories mechanical and chemical in their genius. Plato, a master of mathematics, studious of all natural laws and causes, feels these, as second causes, to be no theories of the world but bare inventories and lists. To the study of nature he therefore prefixes the dogma,- "Let us declare the cause which led the Supreme Ordainer to produce and compose the universe. He was good; and he who is good has no kind of envy. Exempt from envy, he wished that all things should be as much as possible like himself. Whosoever, taught by wise men, shall admit this as the prime cause of the origin and foundation of the world, will be in the truth."*(9) "All things are for the sake of the good, and it is the cause of every thing beautiful." This dogma animates and impersonates his philosophy.

The synthesis which makes the character of his mind appears in all his talents. Where there is great compass of wit, we usually find excellencies that combine easily in the living man, but in description appear incompatible. The mind of Plato is not to be exhibited by a Chinese catalogue, but is to be apprehended by an original mind in the exercise of its original power. In him the freest abandonment is united with the precision of a geometer. His daring imagination gives him the more solid grasp of facts; as the birds of highest flight have the strongest alar bones. His patrician polish, his intrinsic elegance, edged by an irony so subtle that it stings and paralyzes, adorn the soundest health and strength of frame. According to the old sentence, "If Jove should descend to the earth, he would speak in the style of Plato."

With this palatial air there is, for the direct aim of several of his works and running through the tenor of them all, a certain earnestness, which mounts, in the Republic and in the Phaedo, to piety. He has been charged with feigning sickness at the time of the death of Socrates. But the anecdotes that have come down from the times attest his manly interference before the people in his master's behalf, since even the savage cry of the assembly to Plato is preserved; and the indignation towards popular government, in many of his pieces, expresses a personal exasperation. He has a probity, a native reverence for justice and honor, and a humanity which makes him tender for the superstitions of the people. Add to this, he believes that poetry, prophecy and the high insight are from a wisdom of which man is not master; that the gods never philosophize, but by a celestial mania these miracles are accomplished. Horsed on these winged steeds, he sweeps the dim regions, visits worlds which flesh cannot enter; he saw the souls in pain, he hears the doom of the judge, he beholds the penal metempsychosis, the Fates, with the rock and shears, and hears the intoxicating hum of their spindle.

But his circ*mspection never forsook him. One would say he had read the inscription on the gates of Busyrane,- "Be bold"; and on the second gate,- "Be bold, be bold, and evermore be bold"; and then again had paused well at the third gate,- "Be not too bold." His strength is like the momentum of a falling planet, and his discretion the return of its due and perfect curve,- so excellent is his Greek love of boundary and his skill in definition. In reading logarithms one is not more secure than in following Plato in his flights. Nothing can be colder than his head, when the lightnings of his imagination are playing in the sky. He has finished his thinking before he brings it to the reader, and he abounds in the surprises of a literary master. He has that opulence which furnishes, at every turn, the precise weapon he needs. As the rich man wears no more garments, drives no more horses, sits in no more chambers than the poor,- but has that one dress, or equipage, or instrument, which is fit for the hour and the need; so Plato, in his plenty, is never restricted, but has the fit word. There is indeed no weapon in all the armory of wit which he did not possess and use,- epic, analysis, mania, intuition, music, satire and irony, down to the customary and polite. His illustrations are poetry and his jests illustrations. Socrates' profession of obstetric art *(10) is good philosophy; and his finding that word "cookery," and "adulatory art," for rhetoric, in the Gorgias, does us a substantial service still. No orator can measure in effect with him who can give good nicknames.

What moderation and understatement and checking his thunder in mid volley! He has good-naturedly furnished the courtier and citizen with all that can be said against the schools. "For philosophy is an elegant thing, if any one modestly meddles with it; but if he is conversant with it more than is becoming, it corrupts the man." He could well afford to be generous,- he, who from the sunlike centrality and reach of his vision, had a faith without cloud. Such as his perception, was his speech: he plays with the doubt and makes the most of it: he paints and quibbles; and by and by comes a sentence that moves the sea and land. The admirable earnest comes not only at intervals, in the perfect yes and no of the dialogue, but in bursts of light. "I, therefore, Callicles, am persuaded by these accounts, and consider how I may exhibit my soul before the judge in a healthy condition. Wherefore, disregarding the honors that most men value, and looking to the truth, I shall endeavor in reality to live as virtuously as I can; and when I die, to die so. And I invite all other men, to the utmost of my power; and you too I in turn invite to this contest, which, I affirm, surpasses all contests here." *(11)

He is a great average man; one who, to the best thinking, adds a proportion and equality in his faculties, so that men see in him their own dreams and glimpses made available and made to pass for what they are. A great common-sense is his warrant and qualification to be the world's interpreter. He has reason, as all the philosophic and poetic class have: but he has also what they have not,- this strong solving sense to reconcile his poetry with the appearances of the world, and build a bridge from the streets of cities to the Atlantis. He omits never this graduation, but slopes his thought, however picturesque the precipice on one side, to an access from the plain. He never writes in ecstasy, or catches us up into poetic raptures.

Plato apprehended the cardinal facts. He could prostrate himself on the earth and cover his eyes whilst he adored that which cannot be numbered, or gauged, or known, or named: that of which every thing can be affirmed and denied: that "which is entity and nonentity." He called it super-essential. He even stood ready, as in the Parmenides, to demonstrate that it was so,- that this Being exceeded the limits of intellect. No man ever more fully acknowledged the Ineffable. Having paid his homage, as for the human race, to the Illimitable, he then stood erect, and for the human race affirmed, "And yet things are knowable!"- that is, the Asia in his mind was first heartily honored,- the ocean of love and power, before form, before will, before knowledge, the Same, the Good, the One; and now, refreshed and empowered by this worship, the instinct of Europe, namely, culture, returns; and he cries, "Yet things are knowable!" They are knowable, because being from one, things correspond. There is a scale; and the correspondence of heaven to earth, of matter to mind, of the part to the whole, is our guide. As there is a science of stars, called astronomy; a science of quantities, called mathematics; a science of qualities, called chemistry; so there is a science of sciences,- I call it Dialectic,- which is the Intellect discriminating the false and the true. It rests on the observation of identity and diversity; for to judge is to unite to an object the notion which belongs to it. The sciences, even the best,- mathematics and astronomy,- are like sportsmen, who seize whatever prey offers, even without being able to make any use of it. Dialectic must teach the use of them. "This is of that rank that no intellectual man will enter on any study for its own sake, but only with a view to advance himself in that one sole science which embraces all." *(12)

"The essence or peculiarity of man is to comprehend a whole; or that which in the diversity of sensations can be comprised under a rational unity." "The soul which has never perceived the truth, cannot pass into the human form." *(13) I announce to men the Intellect. I announce the good of being interpenetrated by the mind that made nature: this benefit, namely, that it can understand nature, which it made and maketh. Nature is good, but intellect is better: as the lawgiver is before the law-receiver. I give you joy, O sons of men! that truth is altogether wholesome; that we have hope to search out what might be the very self of everything. The misery of man is to be baulked of the sight of essence and to be stuffed with conjectures; but the supreme good is reality; the supreme beauty is reality; and all virtue and all felicity depend on this science of the real: for courage is nothing else than knowledge; the fairest fortune that can befall man is to be guided by his daemon to that which is truly his own. This also is the essence of justice,- to attend every one his own: nay, the notion of virtue is not to be arrived at except through direct contemplation of the divine essence. Courage then for "the persuasion that we must search that which we do not know, will render us, beyond comparison, better, braver and more industrious than if we thought it impossible to discover what we do not know, and useless to search for it." He secures a position not to be commanded, by his passion for reality; valuing philosophy only as it is the pleasure of conversing with real being.

Thus, full of the genius of Europe, he said, Culture. He saw the institutions of Sparta and recognized, more genially one would say than any since, the hope of education. He delighted in every accomplishment, in every graceful and useful and truthful performance; above all in the splendors of genius and intellectual achievement. "The whole of life, O Socrates," said Glauco, "is, with the wise, the measure of hearing such discourses as these." What a price he sets on the feats of talent, on the powers of Pericles, of Isocrates, of Parmenides! What price above price on the talents themselves! He called the several faculties, gods, in his beautiful personation. What value he gives to the art of gymnastic in education; what to geometry; what to music; what to astronomy, whose appeasing and medicinal power he celebrates! In the Timaeus he indicates the highest employment of the eyes. "By us it is asserted that God invented and bestowed sight on us for this purpose,- that on surveying the circles of intelligence in the heavens, we might properly employ those of our own minds, which, though disturbed when compared with the others that are uniform, are still allied to their circulations; and that having thus learned, and being naturally possessed of a correct reasoning faculty, we might, by imitating the uniform revolutions of divinity, set right our own wanderings and blunders." And in the Republic,- "By each of these disciplines a certain organ of the soul is both purified and reanimated which is blinded and buried by studies of another kind; an organ better worth saving than ten thousand eyes, since truth is perceived by this alone."

He said, Culture; but he first admitted its basis, and gave immeasurably the first place to advantages of nature. His patrician tastes laid stress on the distinctions of birth. In the doctrine of the organic character and disposition is the origin of caste. "Such as were fit to govern, into their composition the informing Deity mingled gold; into the military, silver; iron and brass for husbandmen and artificers." The East confirms itself, in all ages, in this faith. The Koran is explicit on this point of caste. "Men have their metal, as of gold and silver. Those of you who were the worthy ones in the state of ignorance, will be the worthy ones in the state of faith, as soon as you embrace it." Plato was not less firm. "Of the five orders of things, only four can be taught to the generality of men." In the Republic he insists on the temperaments of the youth, as first of the first.

A happier example of the stress laid on nature is in the dialogue with the young Theages, who wishes to receive lessons from Socrates. Socrates declares that if some have grown wise by associating with him, no thanks are due to him; but, simply, whilst they were with him they grew wise, not because of him; he pretends not to know the way of it. "It is adverse to many, nor can those be benefited by associating with me whom the Daemon opposes; so that it is not possible for me to live with these. With many however he does not prevent me from conversing, who yet are not at all benefited by associating with me. Such, O Theages, is the association with me; for, if it pleases the God, you will make great and rapid proficiency: you will not, if he does not please. Judge whether it is not safer to be instructed by some one of those who have power over the benefit which they impart to men, than by me, who benefit or not, just as it may happen." As if he had said, "I have no system. I cannot be answerable for you. You will be what you must. If there is love between us, inconceivably delicious and profitable will our intercourse be; if not, your time is lost and you will only annoy me. I shall seem to you stupid, and the reputation I have, false. Quite above us, beyond the will of you or me, is this secret affinity or repulsion laid. All my good is magnetic, and I educate, not by lessons, but by going about my business."

He said, Culture; he said, Nature; and he failed not to add, "There is also the divine." There is no thought in any mind but it quickly tends to convert itself into a power and organizes a huge instrumentality of means. Plato, lover of limits, loved the illimitable, saw the enlargement and nobility which come from truth itself and good itself, and attempted as if on the part of the human intellect, once for all to do it adequate homage,- homage fit for the immense soul to receive, and yet homage becoming the intellect to render. He said then, "Our faculties run out into infinity, and return to us thence. We can define but a little way; but here is a fact which will not be skipped, and which to shut our eyes upon is suicide. All things are in a scale; and, begin where we will, ascend and ascend. All things are symbolical; and what we call results are beginnings."

A key to the method and completeness of Plato is his twice bisected line. After he has illustrated the relation between the absolute good and true and the forms of the intelligible world, he says: "Let there be a line cut in two unequal parts. Cut again each of these two main parts,- one representing the visible, the other the intelligible world,- and let these two new sections represent the bright part and the dark part of each of these worlds. You will have, for one of the sections of the visible world, images, that is, both shadows and reflections;- for the other section, the objects of these images, that is, plants, animals, and the works of art and nature. Then divide the intelligible world in like manner; the one section will be of opinions and hypotheses, and the other section of truths." *(14) To these four sections, the four operations of the soul correspond,- conjecture, faith, understanding, reason. As every pool reflects the image of the sun, so every thought and thing restores us an image and creature of the supreme Good. The universe is perforated by a million channels for his activity. All things mount and mount.

All his thought has this ascension; in Phaedrus, teaching that beauty is the most lovely of all things, exciting hilarity and shedding desire and confidence through the universe wherever it enters, and it enters in some degree into all things:- but that there is another, which is as much more beautiful than beauty as beauty is than chaos; namely, wisdom, which our wonderful organ of sight cannot reach unto, but which, could it be seen, would ravish us with its perfect reality. He has the same regard to it as the source of excellence in works of art. When an artificer, he says, in the fabrication of any work, looks to that which always subsists according to the same; and, employing a model of this kind, expresses its idea and power in his work,- it must follow that his production should be beautiful. But when he beholds that which is born and dies, it will be far from beautiful.

Thus ever: the Banquet is a teaching in the same spirit, familiar now to all the poetry and to all the sermons of the world, that the love of the sexes is initial, and symbolizes at a distance the passion of the soul for that immense lake of beauty it exists to seek. This faith in the Divinity is never out of mind, and constitutes the ground of all his dogmas. Body cannot teach wisdom;- God only. In the same mind he constantly affirms that virtue cannot be taught; that it is not a science, but an inspiration; that the greatest goods are produced to us through mania and are assigned to us by a divine gift.

This leads me to that central figure which he has established in his Academy as the organ through which every considered opinion shall be announced, and whose biography he has likewise so labored that the historic facts are lost in the light of Plato's mind. Socrates and Plato are the double star which the most powerful instruments will not entirely separate. Socrates again, in his traits and genius, is the best example of that synthesis which constitutes Plato's extraordinary power. Socrates, a man of humble stem, but honest enough; of the commonest history; of a personal homeliness so remarkable as to be a cause of wit in others:- the rather that his broad good nature and exquisite taste for a joke invited the sally, which was sure to be paid. The players personated him on the stage; the potters copied his ugly face on their stone jugs. He was a cool fellow, adding to his humor a perfect temper and a knowledge of his man, be he who he might whom he talked with, which laid the companion open to certain defeat in any debate,- and in debate he immoderately delighted. The young men are prodigiously fond of him and invite him to their feasts, whither he goes for conversation. He can drink, too; has the strongest head in Athens; and after leaving the whole party under the table, goes away as if nothing had happened, to begin new dialogues with somebody that is sober. In short, he was what our country-people call an old one.

He affected a good many citizen-like tastes, was monstrously fond of Athens, hated trees, never willingly went beyond the walls, knew the old characters, valued the bores and philistines, thought every thing in Athens a little better than anything in any other place. He was plain as a Quaker in habit and speech, affected low phrases, and illustrations from co*cks and quails, soup-pans and sycamore-spoons, grooms and farriers, and unnamable offices,- especially if he talked with any superfine person. He had a Franklin-like wisdom. Thus he showed one who was afraid to go on foot to Olympia, that it was no more than his daily walk within doors, if continuously extended, would easily reach.

Plain old uncle as he was, with his great ears, an immense talker,- the rumor ran that on one or two occasions, in the war with Boeotia, he had shown a determination which had covered the retreat of a troop; and there was some story that under cover of folly, he had, in the city government, when one day he chanced to hold a seat there, evinced a courage in opposing singly the popular voice, which had well-nigh ruined him. He is very poor; but then he is hardy as a soldier, and can live on a few olives; usually, in the strictest sense, on bread and water, except when entertained by his friends. His necessary expenses were exceedingly small, and no one could live as he did. He wore no under garment; his upper garment was the same for summer and winter, and he went barefooted; and it is said that to procure the pleasure, which he loves, of talking at his ease all day with the most elegant and cultivated young men, he will now and then return to his shop and carve statues, good or bad, for sale. However that be, it is certain that he had grown to delight in nothing else than this conversation; and that, under his hypocritical pretence of knowing nothing, he attacks and brings down all the fine speakers, all the fine philosophers of Athens, whether natives or strangers from Asia Minor and the islands. Nobody can refuse to talk with him, he is so honest and really curious to know; a man who was willingly confuted if he did not speak the truth, and who willingly confuted others asserting what was false; and not less pleased when confuted than when confuting; for he thought not any evil happened to men of such a magnitude as false opinion respecting the just and unjust. A pitiless disputant, who knows nothing, but the bounds of whose conquering intelligence no man had ever reached; whose temper was imperturbable; whose dreadful logic was always leisurely and sportive; so careless and ignorant as to disarm the wariest and draw them, in the pleasantest manner, into horrible doubts and confusion. But he always knew the way out; knew it, yet would not tell it. No escape; he drives them to terrible choices by his dilemmas, and tosses the Hippiases and Gorgiases with their grand reputations, as a boy tosses his balls. The tyrannous realist!- Meno has discoursed a thousand times, at length, on virtue, before many companies, and very well, as it appeared to him; but at this moment he cannot even tell what it is,- this cramp-fish of a Socrates has so bewitched him.

This hard-headed humorist, whose strange conceits, drollery and bonhommie diverted the young patricians, whilst the rumor of his sayings and quibbles gets abroad every day,- turns out, in the sequel, to have a probity as invincible as his logic, and to be either insane, or at least, under cover of this play, enthusiastic in his religion. When accused before the judges of subverting the popular creed, he affirms the immortality of the soul, the future reward and punishment; and refusing to recant, in a caprice of the popular government was condemned to die, and sent to the prison. Socrates entered the prison and took away all ignominy from the place, which could not be a prison whilst he was there. Crito bribed the jailer; but Socrates would not go out by treachery. "Whatever inconvenience ensue, nothing is to be preferred before justice. These things I hear like pipes and drums, whose sound makes me deaf to every thing you say." The fame of this prison, the fame of the discourses there and the drinking of the hemlock are one of the most precious passages in the history of the world.

The rare coincidence, in one ugly body, of the droll and the martyr, the keen street and market debater with the sweetest saint known to any history at that time, had forcibly struck the mind of Plato, so capacious of these contrasts; and the figure of Socrates by a necessity placed itself in the foreground of the scene, as the fittest dispenser of the intellectual treasures he had to communicate. It was a rare fortune that this Aesop of the mob and this robed scholar should meet, to make each other immortal in their mutual faculty. The strange synthesis in the character of Socrates capped the synthesis in the mind of Plato. Moreover by this means he was able, in the direct way and without envy to avail himself of the wit and weight of Socrates, to which unquestionably his own debt was great; and these derived again their principal advantage from the perfect art of Plato.

It remains to say that the defect of Plato in power is only that which results inevitably from his quality. He is intellectual in his aim; and therefore, in expression, literary. Mounting into heaven, diving into the pit, expounding the laws of the state, the passion of love, the remorse of crime, the hope of the parting soul,- he is literary, and never otherwise. It is almost the sole deduction from the merit of Plato that his writings have not,- what is no doubt incident to this regnancy of intellect in his work,- the vital authority which the screams of prophets and the sermons of unlettered Arabs and Jews possess. There is an interval; and to cohesion, contact is necessary.

I know not what can be said in reply to this criticism but that we have come to a fact in the nature of things: an oak is not an orange. The qualities of sugar remain with sugar, and those of salt with salt.

In the second place, he has not a system. The dearest defenders and disciples are at fault. He attempted a theory of the universe, and his theory is not complete or self-evident. One man thinks he means this, and another that; he has said one thing in one place, and the reverse of it in another place. He is charged with having failed to make the transition from ideas to matter. Here is the world, sound as a nut, perfect, not the smallest piece of chaos left, never a stitch nor an end, not a mark of haste, or botching, or second thought; but the theory of the world is a thing of shreds and patches.

The longest wave is quickly lost in the sea. Plato would willingly have a Platonism, a known and accurate expression for the world, and it should be accurate. It shall be the world passed through the mind of Plato,- nothing less. Every atom shall have the Platonic tinge; every atom, every relation or quality you knew before, you shall know again and find here, but now ordered; not nature, but art. And you shall feel that Alexander indeed overran, with men and horses, some countries of the planet; but countries, and things of which countries are made, elements, planet itself, laws of planet and of men, have passed through this man as bread into his body, and become no longer bread, but body: so all this mammoth morsel has become Plato. He has clapped copyright on the world. This is the ambition of individualism. But the mouthful proves too large. Boa constrictor has good will to eat it, but he is foiled. He falls abroad in the attempt; and biting, gets strangled: the bitten world holds the biter fast by his own teeth. There he perishes: unconquered nature lives on and forgets him. So it fares with all: so must it fare with Plato. In view of eternal nature, Plato turns out to be philosophical exercitations. He argues on this side and on that. The acutest German, the lovingest disciple, could never tell what Platonism was; indeed, admirable texts can be quoted on both sides of every great question from him. *(15)

These things we are forced to say if we must consider the effort of Plato or of any philosopher to dispose of nature,- which will not be disposed of. No power of genius has ever yet had the smallest success in explaining existence. The perfect enigma remains. But there is an injustice in assuming this ambition for Plato. Let us not seem to treat with flippancy his venerable name. Men, in proportion to their intellect, have admitted his transcendent claims. The way to know him is to compare him, not with nature, but with other men. How many ages have gone by, and he remains unapproached! A chief structure of human wit, like Karnac, or the medieval cathedrals, or the Etrurian remains, it requires all the breath of human faculty to know it. I think it is trueliest seen when seen with the most respect. His sense deepens, his merits multiply, with study. When we say, Here is a fine collection of fables; or when we praise the style, or the common sense, or arithmetic, we speak as boys, and much of our impatient criticism of the dialectic, I suspect, is no better.

The criticism is like our impatience of miles, when we are in a hurry; but it is still best that a mile should have seventeen hundred and sixty yards. The great-eyed Plato proportioned the lights and shades after the genius of our life.

PLATO: NEW READINGS.

THE int ons of Plato, which we esteem one of HE publication, in Mr. Bohn's " Serial Library," of thethe chief benefits the cheap press has yielded, gives us anoccasion to take hastily a few more notes of the elevation andbearings of this fixed star; or, to add a bulletin, like the jour- nals, of Plato at the latest dates.Modern science, by the extent of its generalization, haslearned to indemnify the student of man for the defects ofindividuals, by tracing growth and ascent in races; and, by the simple expedient of lighting up the vast background,generates a feeling of complacency and hope.The humanbeing has the saurian and the plant in his rear. His arts andsciences, the easy issue of his brain, look glorious whenprospectively beheld from the distant brain of ox, crocodile,and fish. It seems as if nature, in regarding the geologicPLATO: NEW READINGS. 307night behind her, when, in five or six millenniums, she had turned out five or six men, as Homer, Phidias, Menu, and Columbus, was no wise discontented with the result. Thesesamples attested the virtue of the tree. These were a clear amelioration of trilobite and saurus, and a good basis for further proceeding. With this artist, time and space are cheap, and she is insensible to what you say of tedious pre- paration. She waited tranquilly the flowing periods of paleon- tology, for the hour to be struck when man should arrive.Then periods must pass before the motion of the earth can be suspected; then before the map of the instincts and thecultivable powers can be drawn. But as of races, so the succession of individual men is fatal and beautiful, and Platohas the fortune, in the history of mankind, to mark an epoch.Plato's fame does not stand on a syllogism, or on anymasterpieces of the Socratic reasoning, or on any thesis, as, for example, the immortality of the soul. He is more than an expert, or a schoolman, or a geometer, or the prophet of apeculiar message. He represents the privilege of the intellect,the power, namely, of carrying up every fact to successive platforms, and so disclosing, in every fact, a germ of expansion.These expansions are in the essence of thought. The natu- ralist would never help us to them by any discoveries of the extent of the universe, but is as poor when cataloguing the resolved nebula of Orion, as when measuring the angles of an acre. But the Republic of Plato, by these expansions, may besaid to require, and so to anticipate, the astronomy of Laplace.The expansions are organic. The mind does not create what it perceives, any more than the eye creates the rose. In ascribing to Plato the merit of announcing them, we only say, here was a more complete man, who could apply to nature the whole scale of the senses, the understanding, and the reason. Theseexpansions, or extensions, consist in continuing the spiritual sight where the horizon falls on our natural vision, and, by this second sight, discovering the long lines of law which shoot in every direction. Everywhere he stands on a path which has no end, but runs continuously round the universe. Therefore,every word becomes an exponent of nature. Whatever he looks upon discloses a second sense, and ulterior senses.perception of the generation of contraries, of death out of life,and life out of death- that law by which, in nature, decomposition is recomposition, and putrefaction and cholera are only signals of a new creation; his discernment of the little in the large, and the large in the small; studying the state in the citizen, and the citizen in the state; and leaving it doubtful whether he exhibited the Republic as an allegory on the educa tion of the private soul; his beautiful definitions of ideas, ofHis308 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.time, of form, or figure, of the line, sometimes hypotheticallygiven, as his defining of virtue, courage, justice, temperance;his love of the apologue, and his apologues themselves; the cave of Trophonius; the ring of Gyges; the charioteer andtwo horses; the golden, silver, brass, and iron temperaments;Theuth and Thamus; and the visions of Hades and the Fates-fables which have imprinted themselves in the human memory like the signs of the zodiac; his soliform eye and hisboniform soul; his doctrine of assimilation; his doctrine ofreminiscence; his clear vision of the laws of return, or reaction,which secure instant justice throughout the universe, instanced everywhere, but specially in the doctrine, " what comes from God to us, returns from us to God," and in Socrates' beliefthat the laws below are sisters of the laws above.More striking examples are his moral conclusions. Platoaffirms the coincidence of science and virtue; for vice cannever know itself and virtue; but virtue knows both itself andvice. The eye attested that justice was best, as long as it wasprofitable; Plato affirms that it is profitable throughout; thatthe profit is intrinsic, though the just conceal his justice fromgods and men; that it is better to suffer injustice, than to doit; that the sinner ought to covet punishment; that the lie wasmore hurtful than homicide; and that ignorance, or the involuntary lie, was more calamitous than involuntary homicide;that the soul is unwillingly deprived of true opinions; andthat no man sins willingly; that the order or proceeding of nature was from the mind to the body; and, though a soundbody cannot restore an unsound mind, yet a good soul can, byits virtue, render the body the best possible. The intelligenthave a right over the ignorant, namely, the right of instructing them. The right punishment of one out of tune, is to makehim play in tune; the fine which the good, refusing to govern,ought to pay, is, to be governed by a worse man; that hisguards shall not handle gold and silver, but shall be instructed that there is gold and silver in their souls, which will makemen willing to give them everything which they need.This second sight explains the stress laid on geometry. Hesaw that the globe of earth was not more lawful and precisethan was the supersensible; that a celestial geometry was in place there, as a logic of lines and angles here below; that theworld was throughout mathematical; the proportions are constant of oxygen, azote, and lime; there is just so muchwater, and slate, and magnesia; not less are the proportions constant of the moral elements.This eldest Goethe, hating varnish and falsehood, delightedin revealing the real at the base of the accidental; in discoveringconnection, continuity, and representation, everywhere; hatingPLATO: NEW READINGS. 309insulation; and appears like the god of wealth among thecabins of vagabonds, opening power and capability in everything he touches. Ethical science was new and vacant, whenPlato could write thus:-" Of all whose arguments are left tothe men of the present time, no one has ever yet condemnedinjustice, or praised justice, otherwise than as respects therepute, honours, and emoluments arising therefrom; while, asrespects either of them in itself, and subsisting by its own power in the soul of the possessor, and concealed both fromgods and men, no one has yet sufficiently investigated, either in poetry or prose writings-how, namely, that the one isthe greatest of all the evils that the soul has within it, andjustice the greatest good. "His definition of ideas, as what is simple, permanent, uniform,and self-existent, for ever discriminating them from the notionsof the understanding, marks an era in the world. He was born to behold the self- evolving power of spirit, endless generator of new ends; a power which is the key at once to thecentrality and the evanescence of things. Plato is so centred,that he can well spare all his dogmas. Thus the fact ofknowledge and ideas reveals to him the fact of eternity; andthe doctrine of reminiscence he offers as the most probableparticular explication . Call that fanciful-it matters not: theconnection between our knowledge and the abyss of being isstill real, and the explication must be not less magnificent.He has indicated every eminent point in speculation. He wrote on the scale of the mind itself, so that all things havesymmetry in his tablet. He put in all the past, without weariness, and descended into detail with a courage like thathe witnessed in nature. One would say, that his forerunnershad mapped out each a farm, or a district, or an island, inintellectual geography, but that Plato first drew the sphere.He domesticates the soul in nature: man is the microcosm.All the circles of the visible heaven represent as many circlesin the rational soul. There is no lawless particle, and there isnothing casual in the action of the human mind. The namesof things, too, are fatal, following the nature of things. Allthe gods of the Pantheon are, by their names, significant of aprofound sense. The gods are the ideas. Pan is speech, ormanifestation; Saturn, the contemplative; Jove, the regalsoul; and Mars, passion. Venus is proportion; Calliope, the soul of the world; Aglaia, intellectual illustration.These thoughts, in sparkles of light, had appeared often topious and to poetic souls; but this well- bred, all- knowingGreek geometer comes with command, gathers them all up intorank and gradation, the Euclid of holiness, and marries the310 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.two parts of nature. Before all men, he saw the intellectua values of the moral sentiment. He describes his own idea ,when he paints in Timæus a god leading things from disorder into order. He kindled a fire so truly in the centre, that wesee the sphere illuminated, and can distinguish poles, equator,and lines of latitude, every arc and node: a theory so averaged,so modulated, that you would say, the winds of ages had sweptthrough this rhythmic structure, and not that it was the brief extempore blotting of one short-lived scribe. Hence it hashappened that a very well- marked class of souls, namely, thosewho delight in giving a spiritual, that is, an ethico- intellectualexpression to every truth, by exhibiting an ulterior end whichis yet legitimate to it, are said to Platonise. Thus, Michael Angelo is a Platonist, in his sonnets. Shakespeare is aPlatonist, when he writes, " Nature is made better by no mean,but nature makes that mean, " or,66 He, that can endure To follow with allegiance a fallen lord,Does conquer him that did his master conquer,And earns a place in the story."Hamlet is a pure Platonist, and ' tis the magnitude only of Shakespeare's proper genius that hinders him from being classed as the most eminent of this school. Swedenborg,throughout his prose poem of " Conjugal Love," is a Platonist.His subtlety commended him to men of thought. Thesecret of his popular success is the moral aim, which endeared him to mankind. Intellect, " he said, “ is king of heaven andof earth;" but, in Plato, intellect is always moral. His writings have also the sempiternal youth of poetry. For their argu- ments, most of them, might have been couched in sonnets: and poetry has never soared higher than in the Timæus and the Phædrus. As the poet, too, he is only contemplative. He did not, like Pythagoras, break himself with an institution. All his painting in the Republic must be esteemed mythical, with intent to bring out, sometimes in violent colours, his thought.You cannot institute, without peril of charlatanism.It was a high scheme, his absolute privilege for the best,(which, to make emphatic, he expressed by community ofwomen, ) as the premium which he would set on grandeur.There shall be exempts of two kinds: first, those who by demerit have put themselves below protection-outlaws; andsecondly, those who by eminence of nature and desert are outof the reach of your rewards: let such be free of the city, and above the law. We confide them to themselves; let them dowith us as they will. Let none presume to measure theirregularities of Michael Angelo and Socrates by village scales.SWEDENBORG; OR, THE MYSTIC. 311In his eighth book of the Republic, he throws a littlemathematical dust in our eyes. I am sorry to see him, aftersuch noble superiorities, permitting the lie to governors. Platoplays Providence a little with the baser sort, as people allow themselves with their dogs and cats.

III.-SWEDENBORG; OR, THE MYSTIC.

AMONG are noteminent of the class personswhich , thosethewhoeconomist are mostcallsdear producers tomen:they have nothing in their hands; they have not cultivatedcorn, nor made bread; they have not led out a colony, norinvented a loom. Ahigher class, in the estimation and love ofthis city-building, market- going race of mankind, are thepoets, who, from the intellectual kingdom, feed the thoughtand imagination with ideas and pictures which raise men outof the world of corn and money, and console them for theshortcomings of the day, and the meannesses of labour andtraffic. Then, also, the philosopher has his value, who flattersthe intellect of this labourer, by engaging him with subtletieswhich instruct him in new faculties. Others may build cities;he is to understand them, and keep them in awe. But there isa class who lead us into another region-the world of morals,or of will. What is singular about this region of thought, is,its claim. Wherever the sentiment of right comes in, it takesprecedence of everything else. For other things, I makepoetry of them; but the moral sentiment makes poetry of me.I have sometimes thought that he would render the greatestservice to modern criticism, who shall draw the line of relationthat subsists between Shakespeare and Swedenborg. Thehuman mind stands ever in perplexity, demanding intellect,demanding sanctity, impatient equally of each without theother. The reconciler has not yet appeared. If we tire of thesaints, Shakespeare is our city of refuge. Yet the instinctspresently teach, that the problem of essence must take precedence of all others the questions of Whence? What? and Whither? and the solution of these must be in a life, and notin a book. A drama or poem is a proximate or oblique reply;but Moses, Menu, Jesus, work directly on this problem. Theatmosphere of moral sentiment is a region of grandeur whichreduces all material magnificence to toys, yet opens to everywretch that has reason the doors of the universe. Almost witha fierce haste it lays its empire on the man. In the languageof the Koran, " God said, the heaven and the earth, and all312 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.that is between them, think ye that we created them in jest,and that ye shall not return to us?" It is the kingdom of thewill, and by inspiring the will, which is the seat of personality,seems to convert the universe into a person; —" The realms of being to no other bow,Not only all are thine, but all are Thou."All men are commanded by the saint. The Koran makes adistinct class of those who are by nature good, and whose goodness has an influence on others, and pronounces this class to be the aim of creation: the other classes are admitted to thefeast of being, only as following in the train of this. And thePersian poet exclaims to a soul of this kind,—" Go boldly forth, and feast on being's banquet;Thou art the called, —the rest admitted with thee."The privilege of this caste is an access to the secrets andstructure of nature, by some higher method than by ex- perience. In common parlance, what one man is said tolearn by experience, a man of extraordinary sagacity is said,without experience, to divine. The Arabians say, that Abul Khain, the mystic, and Abu Ali Seena, the philosopher, conferred together; and, on parting, the philosopher said, " All that he sees, I know; " and the mystic said, "All that heknows, I see. " If one should ask the reason of this intuition,the solution would lead us into that property which Platodenoted as Reminiscence, and which is implied by the Brahmins in the tenet of Transmigration. The soul having been often born, or, as the Hindoos say, "travelling the pathof existence through thousands of births," having beheld thethings which are here, those which are in heaven, and those which are beneath, there is nothing of which she has notgained the knowledge: no wonder that she is able to recollect,in regard to any one thing, what formerly she knew. "For,all things in nature being linked and related, and the soulhaving heretofore known all, nothing hinders but that anyman who has recalled to mind, or, according to the common phrase, has learned one thing only, should of himself recoverall his ancient knowledge, and find out again all the rest, ifhe have but courage, and faint not in the midst of his re- searches. For inquiry and learning is reminiscence all.”How much more, if he that inquires be a holy and godlike soul! For, by being assimilated to the original soul, bywhom, and after whom, all things subsist, the soul of man does then easily flow into all things, and all things flow intoit: they mix; and he is present and sympathetic with their structure and law.SWEDENBORG; OR, THE MYSTIC. 313This path is difficult, secret, and beset with terror. Theancients called it ecstacy or absence, a getting out of theirbodies to think. All religious history contains traces of thetrance of saints,-a beatitude, but without any sign of joy,earnest, solitary, even sad; "the flight," Plotinus called it," of the alone to the alone;" Mueσis, the closing of the eyes,—whence our word Mystic. The trances of Socrates, Plotinus,Porphyry, Behmen, Bunyan, Fox, Pascal, Guion, Swedenborg,will readily come to mind. But what as readily comes tomind, is, the accompaniment of disease. This beatitude comes in terror, and with shocks to the mind of the receiver.o'erinforms the tenement of clay," and drives the man mad;or, gives a certain violent bias, which taints his judgment. Inthe chief examples of religious illumination, somewhat morbidhas mingled, in spite of the unquestionable increase of mental power. Must the highest good drag after it a quality which neutralizes and discredits it?-"Indeed, it takesFrom our achievements, when performed at height,The pith and marrow of our attribute . "" ItShall we say, that the economical mother disburses so muchearth and so much fire, by weight and metre, to make a man,and will not add a pennyweight, though a nation is perishingfor a leader? Therefore, the men of God purchased their science by folly or pain. If you will have pure carbon,carbuncle, or diamond, to make the brain transparent, thetrunk and organs shall be so much the grosser: instead ofporcelain, they are potter's earth, clay, or mud.In modern times, no such remarkable example of this in- troverted mind has occurred, as in Emanuel Swedenborg,born in Stockholm, in 1688. This man, who appeared to his contemporaries a visionary, and elixir of moonbeams, no doubtled the most real life of any man then in the world: andnow, when the royal and ducal Frederics, Cristierns, and Brunswicks, of that day, have slid into oblivion, he begins tospread himself into the minds of thousands. As happens in great men, he seemed, by the variety and amount of hispowers, to be a composition of several persons, like the giantfruits which are matured in gardens by the union of four or five single blossoms. His frame is on a larger scale, and possesses the advantages of size. As it is easier to see thereflection of the great sphere in large globes, though defacedby some crack or blemish, than in drops of water, so men oflarge calibre, though with some eccentricity or madness, like Pascal or Newton, help us more than balanced mediocre minds.His youth and training could not fail to be extraordinary.314 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.Such a boy could not whistle or dance, but goes grubbing into mines and mountains, prying into chemistry and optics, physiology, mathematics, and astronomy, to find images fit for themeasure of his versatile and capacious brain.He was ascholar from a child, and was educated at Upsala. At the age of twenty-eight he was made Assessor of the Board ofMines, by Charles XII. In 1716, he left home for four years,and visited the universities of England, Holland, France, andGermany. He performed a notable feat of engineering in 1718, at the siege of Fredericshall, by hauling two galleys,five boats, and a sloop, some fourteen English miles overland,for the royal service. In 1721, he journeyed over Europe, toexamine mines and smelting works. He published, in 1716,his Dædalus Hyperboreus, and, from this time, for the nextthirty years, was employed in the composition and publication of his scientific works. With the like force, he threw himselfinto theology. In 1743, when he was fifty-four years old, what is called his illumination began. All his metallurgy, and transportation of ships overland, was absorbed into thisecstasy. He ceased to publish any more scientific books,withdrew from his practical labours, and devoted himself tothe writing and publication of his voluminous theological works, which were printed at his own expense, or at that ofthe Duke of Brunswick, or other prince, at Dresden, Leipsic,London, or Amsterdam. Later, he resigned his office ofAssessor; the salary attached to this office continued to be paid to him during his life. His duties had brought himinto intimate acquaintance with King Charles XII. , by whom he was much consulted and honoured. The like favour wascontinued to him by his successor. At the Diet of 1751,Count Hopken says, the most solid memorials on finance were from his pen. In Sweden, he appears to have attracteda marked regard. His rare science and practical skill, andthe added fame of second sight and extraordinary religiousknowledge and gifts, drew to him queens, nobles, clergy, shipmasters, and people about the ports through which he was wont to pass in his many voyages. The clergy interfered alittle with the importation and publication of his religiousworks; but he seems to have kept the friendship of men inpower. He was never married. He had great modesty and gentleness of bearing. His habits were simple; he lived onbread, milk, and vegetables; he lived in a house situated ina large garden: he went several times to England, where hedoes not seem to have attracted any attention whatever fromthe learned or the eminent; and died at London, March 29,1772, of apoplexy, in his eighty-fifth year. He is described ,when in London, as a man of a quiet, clerical habit, not averseSWEDENBORG; OR, THE MYSTIC. 315to tea and coffee, and kind to children. He wore a swordwhen in full velvet dress, and, whenever he walked out, carrieda gold-headed cane. There is a common portrait of him inantique coat and wig, but the face has a wandering or vacant air.The genius which was to penetrate the science of the age with a far more subtle science; to pass the bounds of spaceand time; venture into the dim spirit-realm, and attempt toestablish a new religion in the world, -began its lessons inquarries and forges, in the smelting- pot and crucible, in shipyards and dissecting- rooms. No one man is perhaps able tojudge of the merits of his works on so many subjects. One is glad to learn that his books on mines and metals are held inthe highest esteem by those who understand these matters.It seems that he anticipated much science of the nineteenthcentury; anticipated, in astronomy, the discovery of theseventh planet, -but, unhappily, not also of the eighth;anticipated the views of modern astronomy in regard to thegeneration of earths by the sun; in magnetism, some im- portant experiments and conclusions of later students; inchemistry, the atomic theory; in anatomy, the discoveries of Schlichting, Monro, and Wilson; and first demonstrated theoffice of the lungs. His excellent English editor magnanimously lays no stress on his discoveries, since he was toogreat to care to be original; and we are to judge, by what he can spare, of what remains.A colossal soul, he lies vast abroad on his times, uncomprehended by them, and requires a long focal distance to be seen; suggests, as Aristotle, Bacon, Selden, Humboldt, thata certain vastness of learning, or quasi omnipresence of the human soul in nature, is possible. His superb speculation, asfrom a tower, over nature and arts, without ever losing sightof the texture and sequence of things, almost realizes his own picture, in the " Principia," of the original integrity of man.Over and above the merit of his particular discoveries, is thecapital merit of his self- equality. A drop of water has the properties of the sea, but cannot exhibit a storm. There isbeauty of a concert, as well as of a flute; strength of a host,as well as of a hero; and, in Swedenborg, those who are best acquainted with modern books will most admire the merit of mass. One of the missouriums and mastodons of literature,he is not to be measured by whole colleges of ordinaryscholars. His stalwart presence would flutter the gowns ofan university. Our books are false by being fragmentary:their sentences are bon mots, and not parts of natural discourse; childish expressions of surprise or pleasure in nature:or, worse, owing a brief notoriety to their petulance, or316 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.aversion from the order of nature, -being some curiosity oroddity, designedly not in harmony with nature, and purposelyframed to excite surprise, as jugglers do by concealing their means. But Swedenborg is systematic, and respective of theworld in every sentence: all the means are orderly given; hisfaculties work with astronomic punctuality, and this admirablewriting is pure from all pertness or egotism.Swedenborg was born into an atmosphere of great ideas."Tis hard to say what was his own, yet his life was dignified by noblest pictures of the universe. The robust Aristotelianmethod, with its breadth and adequateness, shaming our sterile and linear logic by its genial radiation, conversant with seriesand degree, with effects and ends, skilful to discriminate power from form, essence from accident, and opening, by its terminology and definition, high roads into nature, had trained a race of athletic philosophers. Harvey had shown the circulation of the blood: Gilbert had shown that the earth was a magnet:Descartes, taught by Gilbert's magnet, with its vortex, spiral,and polarity, had filled Europe with the leading thought ofvortical motion, as the secret of nature. Newton, in the year in which Swedenborg was born, published the " Principia, "and established the universal gravity. Malpighi, following thehigh doctrines of Hippocrates, Leucippus, and Lucretius, had given emphasis to the dogma that nature works in leasts- "tota in minimis existit natura." Unrivalled dissectors,Swammerdam, Leeuwenhoek, Winslow, Eustachius, Heister,Vesalius, Boerhaave, had left nothing for scalpel or microscopeto reveal in human or comparative anatomy: Linnæus, his contemporary, was affirming, in his beautiful science, that"Nature is always like herself:" and, lastly, the nobility ofmethod, the largest application of principles, had been exhibited by Leibnitz and Christian Wolff, in cosmology; whilst Locke and Grotius had drawn the moral argument. What was leftfor a genius of the largest calibre, but to go over their ground,and verify and unite? It is easy to see, in these minds, theorigin of Swedenborg's studies, and the suggestion of hisproblems. He had a capacity to entertain and vivify thesevolumes of thought. Yet the proximity of these geniuses, one or other of whom had introduced all his leading ideas, makesSwedenborg another example of the difficulty, even in a highly fertile genius, of proving originality, the first birth and annun- ciation of one of the laws of nature.He named his favourite views, the doctrine of Forms, thedoctrine of Series and Degrees, the doctrine of Influx, thedoctrine of Correspondence. His statement of these doctrines deserves to be studied in his books. Not every man can readthem, but they will reward him who can. His theologic worksSWEDENBORG; OR, THE MYSTIC. 31766are valuable to illustrate these. His writings would be asufficient library to a lonely and athletic student; and the Economy of the Animal Kingdom " is one of those bookswhich, by the sustained dignity of thinking, is an honour to the human race. He had studied spars and metals to somepurpose. His varied and solid knowledge makes his style lustrous with points and shooting spicula of thought, and resembling one of those winter mornings when the air sparkleswith crystals. The grandeur of the topics makes the grandeur of the style. He was apt for cosmology, because of that nativeperception of identity which made mere size of no account tohim. In the atom of magnetic iron, he saw the quality whichwould generate the spiral motion of sun and planet.The thoughts in which he lived were, the universality of each law in nature; the Platonic doctrine of the scale ordegrees; the version or conversion of each into other, and so the correspondence of all the parts; the fine secret that littleexplains large, and large, little; the centrality of man in nature,and the connection that subsists throughout all things: he sawthat the human body was strictly universal, or an instrumentthrough which the soul feeds and is fed by the whole of matter:so that he held, in exact antagonism to the sceptics, that, "thewiser a man is, the more will he be a worshipper of the Deity."In short, he was a believer in the Identity-philosophy, whichhe held not idly, as the dreamers of Berlin or Boston, butwhich he experimented with and stablished through years of labour, with the heart and strength of the rudest Viking that his rough Sweden ever sent to battle.This theory dates from the oldest philosophers, and derives perhaps its best illustration from the newest. It is this: thatnature iterates her means perpetually on successive planes. Inthe old aphorism, nature is always self-similar. In the plant,the eye or germinative point opens to a leaf, then to anotherleaf, with a power of transforming the leaf into radicle, stamen,pistil, petal, bract, sepal, or seed. The whole art of the plantis still to repeat leaf on leaf without end, the more or less of heat, light, moisture, and food, determining the form it shall assume. In the animal, nature makes a vertebra, or a spine ofvertebræ, and helps herself still by a new spine, with a limited power of modifying its form-spine on spine, to the end of theworld. A poetic anatomist, in our own day, teaches that asnake, being a horizontal line, and man, being an erect line,constitute a right angle; and, between the lines of this mysticalquadrant, all animated beings find their place: and he assumes the hair-worm, the span-worm, or the snake, as the type orprediction of the spine. Manifestly, at the end of the spine,nature puts out smaller spines, as arms; at the end ofthe arms,318 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.new spines, as hands; at the other end, she repeats the process,as legs and feet. At the top of the column, she puts out another spine, which doubles or loops itself over, as a spanworm, into a ball, and forms the skull, with extremities again:the hands being now the upper jaw, the feet the lower jaw, thefingers and toes being represented this time by upper and lower teeth. This new spine is destined to high uses.It is anew man on the shoulders of the last. It can almost shed itstrunk, and manage to live alone, according to the Platonic ideain the Timæus. Within it, on a higher plane, all that was done in the trunk repeats itself. Nature recites her lesson once more in a higher mood. The mind is a finer body, andresumes its functions of feeding, digesting, absorbing, exclud- ing, and generating, in a new and ethereal element. Here, inthe brain, is all the process of alimentation repeated, in theacquiring, comparing, digesting, and assimilating of experience.Here again is the mystery of generation repeated. In the brain are male and female faculties: here is marriage, here isfruit. And there is no limit to this ascending scale, but serieson series. Everything, at the end of one use, is taken up intothe next, each series punctually repeating every organ_andprocess of the last. We are adapted to infinity. We are hardto please, and love nothing which ends: and in nature is no end; but everything, at the end of one use, is lifted into asuperior, and the ascent of these things climbs into dæmonicand celestial natures. Creative force, like a musical composer,goes on unweariedly repeating a simple air or theme, now high,now low, in solo, in chorus, ten thousand times reverberated,till it fills earth and heaven with the chant.Gravitation, as explained by Newton, is good, but grander,when we find chemistry only an extension of the law of masses into particles, and that the atomic theory shows the action ofchemistry to be mechanical also. Metaphysics shows us a sortof gravitation, operative also in the mental phenomena; and the terrible tabulation of the French statists brings every piece of whim and humour to be reducible also to exact numericalratios. If one man in twenty thousand, or in thirty thousand,eats shoes, or marries his grandmother, then, in every twentythousand, or thirty thousand, is found one man who eats shoes,or marries his grandmother. What we call gravitation, and fancy ultimate, is one fork of a mightier stream, for which wehave yet no name. Astronomy is excellent; but it must comeup into life to have its full value, and not remain there inglobes and spaces. The globule of blood gyrates around itsown axis in the human veins, as the planet in the sky; and the circles of intellect relate to those of the heavens. Each law ofnature has the like universality; eating, sleep or hybernation,SWEDENBORG; OR, THE MYSTIC. 319rotation, generation, metamorphosis, vortical motion, which isseen in eggs as in planets. These grand rhymes or returns in nature the dear, best-known face startling us at every turn,under a mask so unexpected that we think it the face of astranger, and, carrying up the semblance into divine formsdelighted the prophetic eye of Swedenborg; and he must bereckoned a leader in that revolution, which, by giving to science an idea, has given to an aimless accumulation ofexperiments, guidance and form, and a beating heart.I own, with some regret, that his printed works amount toabout fifty stout octavos, his scientific works being about half of the whole number; and it appears that a mass of manuscript still unedited remains in the royal library at Stockholm. Thescientific works have just now been translated into English, in an excellent edition.Swedenborg printed these scientific books in the ten yearsfrom 1734 to 1744, and they remained from that timeneglected: and now, after their century is complete, he has atlast found a pupil in Mr. Wilkinson, in London, a philosophiccritic, with a co-equal vigour of understanding and imagination comparable only to Lord Bacon's, who has produced hismaster's buried books to the day, and transferred them, withevery advantage, from their forgotten Latin into English, togo round the world in our commercial and conquering tongue.This startling re-appearance of Swedenborg, after a hundredyears, in his pupil, is not the least remarkable fact in hishistory. Aided, it is said, by the munificence of Mr. Clissold,and also by his literary skill, this piece of poetic justice isdone. The admirable preliminary discourses with which Mr. Wilkinson has enriched these volumes, throw all the contemporary philosophy of England into shade, and leave me nothingto say on their proper grounds.66The " Animal Kingdom" is a book of wonderful merits. Itwas written with the highest end-to put science and the soul,long estranged from each other, at one again. It was ananatomist's account of the human body, in the highest style of poetry. Nothing can exceed the bold and brilliant treatmentof a subject usually so dry and repulsive. He saw naturewreathing through an everlasting spiral, with wheels thatnever dry, on axes that never creak," and sometimes sought"to uncover those secret recesses where nature is sitting atthe fires in the depths of her laboratory;" whilst the picture comes recommended by the hard fidelity with which it is basedon practical anatomy. It is remarkable that this sublimegenius decides, peremptorily for the analytic, against the synthetic method; and, in a book whose genius is a daring poeticsynthesis, claims to confine himself to a rigid experience.320 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.He knows, if he only, the flowing of nature, and how wisewas that old answer of Amasis to him who bade him drink up the sea-" Yes, willingly, if you will stop the rivers that flow in." Fewknew as much about nature and her subtle manners,or expressed more subtly her goings. He thought as large ademand is made on our faith by nature, as by miracles.Henoted that in her proceeding from first principles through herseveral subordinations, there was no state through which shedid not pass, as if her path lay through all things." " For asoften as she betakes herself upward from visible phenomena,or, in other words, withdraws herself inward, she instantly, as it were, disappears, while no one knows what has become ofher, or whither she is gone: so that it is necessary to takescience as a guide in pursuing her steps."The pursuing the inquiry under the light of an end or final cause, gives wonderful animation, a sort of personality to thewhole writing. This book announces his favourite dogmas.The ancient doctrine of Hippocrates, that the brain is a gland;and of Leucippus, that the atom may be known by the mass;or, in Plato, the macrocosm by the microcosm; and, in the verses of LucretiusOssa videlicet e pauxillis atque minutis Ossibus sic et de pauxillis atque minutis Visceribus viscus gigni, sanguenque creari Sanguinis inter se multis coeuntibus guttis;Ex aurique putat micis consistere posse Aurum, et de terris terrain concrescere parvis;Ignibus ex igneis, humorem humoribus esse."The principle of all things entrails madeLIB. I. 835Of smallest entrails; bone, of smallest bone;Blood, of small sanguine drops reduced to one;Gold, of small grains; earth, of small sands contracted;Small drops to water, sparks to fire contracted,"and which Malpighi had summed in his maxim, that "natureexists entire in leasts, "-is a favourite thought of Swedenborg."It is a constant law of the organic body, that large, compound, or visible forms exist and subsist from smaller, simpler,and ultimately from invisible forms, which act similarly to thelarger ones, but more perfectly and more universally; and theleast forms so perfectly and universally, as to involve an idea representative of their entire universe." The unities of eachorgan are so many little organs, hom*ogeneous with theircompound: the unities of the tongue are little tongues; those of the stomach, little stomachs; those of the heart are little hearts. This fruitful idea furnishes a key to every secret.SWEDENBORG; OR, THE MYSTIC. 321What was too small for the eye to detect was read by theaggregates; what was too large, bythe units. There is no endto his application of the thought. " Hunger is an aggregateof very many little hungers, or losses of blood by the little veins all over the body." It is a key to his theology, also." Man is a kind of very minute heaven, corresponding to theworld of spirits and to heaven. Every particular idea of man,and every affection, yea, every smallest part of his affection, isan image and effigy of him. A spirit may be known from only a single thought. God is the grand man."The hardihood and thoroughness of his study of nature required a theory of forms also. "Forms ascend in order fromthe lowest to the highest. The lowest form is angular, or theterrestrial and corporeal. The second and next higher form isthe circular, which is also called the perpetual-angular, becausethe circumference of a circle is a perpetual angle. The formabove this is the spiral, parent and measure of circular forms:its diameters are not rectilinear, but variously circular, andhave a spherical surface for centre; therefore it is called the perpetual-circular. The form above this is the vortical, orperpetual- spiral: next, the perpetual- vortical, or celestial: last,the perpetual- celestial, or spiritual. ”Was it strange that a genius so bold should take the last step also conceive that he might attain the science of all sciences, to unlock the meaning of the world? In the first volume of the Animal Kingdom, ' he broaches the subject in a remarkable note:-"In our doctrine of Representations and Correspondences, weshall treat of both these symbolical and typical resemblances,and of the astonishing things which occur, I will not say, inthe living body only, but throughout nature, and whichcorrespond so entirely to supreme and spiritual things, thatone would swear that the physical world was purely symbolicalof the spiritual world; insomuch, that if we choose to expressany natural truth in physical and definite vocal terms, and toconvert these terms only into the corresponding and spiritualterms, we shall by this means elicit a spiritual truth, or theological dogma, in place of the physical truth or precept:although no mortal would have predicted that anything of thekind could possibly arise by bare literal transposition; inasmuch as the one precept, considered separately from the other,appears to have absolutely no relation to it. I intend, hereafter, to communicate a number of examples of such correspondences, together with a vocabulary containing the terms of spiritual things, as well as of the physical things for whichthey are to be substituted. This symbolism pervades the living body."VOL. I. Y322 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.The fact, thus explicitly stated, is implied in all poetry, inallegory, in fable, in the use of emblems, and in the structureof language. Plato knew of it, as is evident from his twicebisected line, in the sixth book of the Republic. Lord Baconhad found that truth and nature differed only as seal and print;and he instanced some physical propositions, with theirtranslation into a moral or political sense. Behmen, and allmystics, imply this law, in their dark riddle-writing. Thepoets, in as far as they are poets, use it; but it is known tothem only, as the magnet was known for ages, as a toy.Swedenborg first put the fact into a detached and scientificstatement, because it was habitually present to him, and never not seen. It was involved, as we explained already, in thedoctrine of identity and iteration, because the mental seriesexactly tallies with the material series. It required an insightthat could rank things in order and series; or, rather, itrequired such rightness of position, that the poles of the eye should coincide with the axis of the world. The earth had fedits mankind through five or six milleniums, and they hadsciences, religions, philosophies; and yet had failed to see thecorrespondence of meaning between every part and every otherpart. And, down to this hour, literature has no book in whichthe symbolism of things is scientifically opened. One wouldsay, that, as soon as men had the first hint that every sensibleobject-animal, rock, river, air-nay, space and time, subsistsnot for itself, nor finally to a material end, but as a picturelanguage to tell another story of beings and duties, otherscience would be put by, and a science of such grand presagewould absorb all faculties: that each man would ask of allobjects what they mean: Why does the horizon hold me fast,with my joy and grief, in this centre? Why hear I the samesense from countless differing voices, and read one never quiteexpressed fact in endless picture-language? Yet, whether it be, that these things will not be intellectually learned, or, thatmany centuries must elaborate and compose so rare andopulent a soul-there is no comet, rock- stratum, fossil, fish,quadruped, spider, or fungus, that, for itself, does not interestmore scholars and classifiers than the meaning and upshot of the frame of things.But Swedenborg was not content with the culinary use ofthe world. In his fifty-fourth year these thoughts held himfast, and his profound mind admitted the perilous opinion, toofrequent in religious history, that he was an abnormal person,to whom was granted the privilege of conversing with angels and spirits; and this ecstacy connected itself with just thisoffice of explaining the moral import of the sensible world.To a right perception, at once broad and minute, of the orderSWEDENBORG; OR, THE MYSTIC. 323of nature, he added the comprehension of the moral laws in their widest social aspects; but whatever he saw, throughsome excessive determination to form, in his constitution, hesaw not abstractly, but in pictures, heard it in dialogues,constructed it in events. When he attempted to announcethe law most sanely, he was forced to couch it in parable.Modern pyschology offers no similar example of a deranged balance. The principal powers continued to maintain a healthy action; and, to a reader who can make due allowance in thereport for the reporter's peculiarities, the results are stillinstructive, and a more striking testimony to the sublime laws he announced than any that balanced dulness couldafford . He attempts to give some account of the modus ofthe new state, affirming that "his presence in the spiritual world is attended with a certain separation, but only as to theintellectual part of his mind, not as to the will part;" and he affirms that “ he sees, with the internal sight, the things thatare in another life, more clearly than he sees the things which are here in the world."66Having adopted the belief that certain books of the Oldand New Testaments were exact allegories, or written in theangelic and ecstatic mode, he employed his remaining years in extricating from the literal, the universal sense. He hadborrowed from Plato the fine fable of " a most ancient people,men better than we, and dwelling nigher to the gods;" andSwedenborg added, that they used the earth symbolically;that these, when they saw terrestrial objects, did not thinkat all about them, but only about those which they signified.Thecorrespondence between thoughts and things henceforward occupied him. The very organic form resembles the endinscribed on it." A man is in general, and in particular, anorganized justice or injustice, selfishness or gratitude. And the cause of this harmony he assigned in the Arcana: "Thereason why all and single things, in the heavens and on earth,are representative, is because they exist from an influx of theLord, through heaven." This design of exhibiting such correspondences, which, if adequately executed, would be the poem of the world, in which all history and science wouldplay an essential part, was narrowed and defeated by the exclusively theologic direction which his inquiries took. Hisperception of nature is not human and universal, but ismystical and Hebraic. He fastens each natural object to atheologic notion; -a horse signifies carnal understanding; atree, perception; the moon, faith; a cat means this; anostrich, that; an artichoke, this other; and poorly tethers every symbol to a several ecclesiastic sense. The slipperyProteus is not so easily caught. In nature, each individual324 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.symbol plays innumerable parts, as each particle of matter circulates in turn through every system. The central identityenables any one symbol to express successively all the qualities and shades of real being. In the transmission of the heavenlywaters, every hose fits every hydrant. Nature avenges herselfspeedily on the hard pedantry that would chain her waves.She is no literalist. Everything must be taken genially, andwe must be at the top of our condition to understand anything rightly.His theological bias thus fatally narrowed his interpretationof nature, and the dictionary of symbols is yet to be written.But the interpreter, whom mankind must still expect, willfind no predecessor who has approached so near to the true problem.Swedenborg styles himself, in the title-page of his books,"Servant of the Lord Jesus Christ;" and by force of intellect,and in effect, he is the last Father in the Church, and is not likely to have a successor. No wonder that his depth ofethical wisdom should give him influence as a teacher. Tothe withered traditional Church, yielding dry catechisms, helet in nature again, and the worshipper, escaping from thevestry of verbs and texts, is surprised to find himself a partyto the whole of his religion. His religion thinks for him,and is of universal application. He turns it on every side;it fits every part of life, interprets and dignifies every circ*mstance. Instead of a religion which visited him diplomatically three or four times, -when he was born, when he married,when he fell sick, and when he died, and for the rest neverinterfered with him, -here was a teaching which accompaniedhim all day, accompanied him even into sleep and dreams;into his thinking, and showed him through what a longancestry his thoughts descend; into society, and showed bywhat affinities he was girt to his equals and his counterparts;into natural objects, and showed their origin and meaning,what are friendly, and what are hurtful; and opened thefuture world, by indicating the continuity of the same laws.His disciples allege that their intellect is invigorated by the study of his books.There is no such problem for criticism as his theologicalwritings, their merits are so commanding; yet such grave deductions must be made. Their immense and sandy diffuse- ness is like the prairie or the desert, and their incongruitiesare like the last deliration. He is superfluously explanatory,and his feeling of the ignorance of men strangely exaggerated.Men take truths of this nature very fast. Yet he abounds inassertions; he is a rich discoverer, and of things which most import us to know. His thought dwells in essential re-SWEDENBORG; OR, THE MYSTIC. 325semblances, like the resemblance of a house to the man whobuilt it. He saw things in their law, in likeness of function.not of structure. There is an invariable method and order inhis delivery of his truth, the habitual proceeding of the mind from inmost to outmost. What earnestness and weightiness,-his eye never roving, without one swell of vanity, or onelook to self, in any common form of literary pride! a theoreticor speculative man, but whom no practical man in the universe could affect to scorn. Plato is a gownsman: his garment,though of purple, and almost sky-woven, is an academic robe,and hinders action within its voluminous folds. But thismystic is awful to Cæsar. Lycurgus himself would bow.The moral insight of Swedenborg, the correction of popular errors, the announcement of ethical laws, take him out ofcomparison with any other modern writer, and entitle him toa place, vacant for some ages, among the lawgivers of man- kind. That slow but commanding influence which he hasacquired, like that of other religious geniuses, must be ex- cessive also, and have its tides, before it subsides into apermanent amount. Of course, what is real and universalcannot be confined to the circle of those who sympathisestrictly with his genius, but will pass forth into the common stock of wise and just thinking. The world has a surechemistry, by which it extracts what is excellent in its children, and lets fall the infirmities and limitations of thegrandest mind.That metempsychosis which is familiar in the old mythology of the Greeks, collected in Ovid, and in the Indian Transmigration, and is there objective, or really takes place in bodies by alien will, -in Swedenborg's mind has a more philosophic character. It is subjective, or depends entirely upon thethought of the person. All things in the universe arrangethemselves to each person anew, according to his ruling love.Man is such as his affection and thought are. Man is man byvirtue of willing, not by virtue of knowledge and understand- ing. As he is, so he sees. The marriages of the world are broken up. Interiors associate all in the spiritual world.Whatever the angels looked upon was to them celestial.Each Satan appears to himself a man; to those as bad as he,a comely man; to the purified, a heap of carrion. Nothingcan resist states: everything gravitates: like will to like:what we call poetic justice takes effect on the spot. We have come into a world which is a living poem. Everything is as I am. Bird and beast is not bird and beast, but emanation and effluvia of the minds and wills of men there present.Every one makes his own house and state. The ghosts are tormented with the fear of death, and cannot remember that326 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.they have died. They who are in evil and falsehood are afraidof all others. Such as have deprived themselves of charity,wander and flee: the societies which they approach discover their quality and drive them away. The covetous seem tothemselves to be abiding in cells where their money is de- posited, and these to be infested with mice. They who place merit in good works seem to themselves to cut wood. " Iasked such, if they were not wearied? They replied, that they have not yet done work enough to merit heaven."6666He delivers golden sayings, which express with singular beauty the ethical laws; as when he uttered that famedsentence, that, " in heaven the angels are advancing con- tinually to the spring-time of their youth, so that the oldest angel appears the youngest:" The more angels, the more room:" The perfection of man is the love of use:" Man,in his perfect form, is heaven:" "What is from Him, isHim: " " Ends always ascend as nature descends:" And thetruly poetic account of the writing in the inmost heaven,which, as it consists of inflexions according to the form ofheaven, can be read without instruction. He almost justifieshis claim to preternatural vision, by strange insights of the structure of the human body and mind. It is never permitted to any one, in heaven, to stand behind another and look at the back of his head: for then the influx which isfrom the Lord is disturbed." "The angels, from the sound ofthe voice, know a man's love; from the articulation of thesound, his wisdom; and from the sense of his words, his science."66In the Conjugal Love,' he has unfolded the science ofmarriage. Of this book, one would say, that, with the highest elements, it has failed of success. It came near to be theHymn of Love, which Plato attempted in the ' Banquet;' thelove, which, Dante says, Casella sang among the angels inParadise; and which, as rightly celebrated, in its genesis,fruition, and effect, might well entrance the souls, as it wouldlay open the genesis of all institutions, customs, and manners.The book had been grand, if the Hebraism had been omitted,and the law stated without Gothicism, as ethics, and with thatscope for ascension of state which the nature of things requires.It is a fine Platonic development of the science of marriage;teaching that sex is universal, and not local; virility in themale qualifying every organ, act, and thought; and the femi- nine in woman. Therefore, in the real or spiritual world, thenuptial union is not momentary, but incessant and total; andchastity not a local, but a universal virtue; unchastity being discovered as much in the trading, or planting, or speaking, orphilosophizing, as in generation; and that, though the virginsSWEDENBORG; OR, THE MYSTIC. 327he saw in heaven were beautiful, the wives were incomparablymore beautiful, and went on increasing in beauty evermore.Yet Swedenborg, after his mode, pinned his theory to atemporary form. He exaggerates the circ*mstance of marriage; and, though he finds false marriages on earth, fancies awiser choice in heaven. But of progressive souls, all loves andfriendships are momentary. Do you love me? means, Do you see the same truth? If you do, we are happy with the samehappiness: but presently one of us passes into the perception of new truth;-we are divorced, and no tension in nature canhold us to each other. I know how delicious is this cup oflove-I existing for you, you existing for me; but it is a child's clinging to his toy; an attempt to eternize the fireside andnuptial chamber; to keep the picture- alphabet through whichour first lessons are prettily conveyed. The Eden of God is bare and grand: like the out- door landscape, remembered fromthe evening fireside, it seems cold and desolate, whilst youcower over the coals; but, once abroad again, we pity thosewho can forego the magnificence of nature for candle-light andcards. Perhaps the true subject of the ' Conjugal Love ' isConversation, whose laws are profoundly eliminated. It is false, if literally applied to marriage. For God is the bride orbridegroom of the soul. Heaven is not the pairing of two, but the communion of all souls. We meet, and dwell an instantunder the temple of one thought, and part as though we partednot, to join another thought in other fellowships of joy. Sofar from there being anything divine in the low and proprietarysense of Do you love me? it is only when you leave and lose me, by casting yourself on a sentiment which is higher thanboth of us, that I draw near, and find myself at your side; and I am repelled if you fix your eye on me and demand love. Infact, in the spiritual world, we change sexes every moment.You love the worth in me; then I am your husband: but it is not me, but the worth, that fixes the love; and that worth is adrop of the ocean of worth that is beyond me. Meantime, Iadore the greater worth in another, and so become his wife.He aspires to a higher worth in another spirit, and is wife or receiver of that influence.Whether a self-inquisitorial habit that he grew into, fromjealousy of the sins to which men of thought are liable, he hasacquired, in disentangling and demonstrating that particular form of moral disease, an acumen which no conscience canresist. I refer to his feeling of the profanation of thinking to what is good " from scientifics. " To reason about faith, is todoubt and deny." He was painfully alive to the differencebetween knowing and doing, and this sensibility is incessantly66328 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.expressed. Philosophers are, therefore, vipers, co*ckatrices,asps, hemorrhoids, presters, and flying serpents; literary men are conjurors and charlatans.But this topic suggests a sad afterthought, that here we findthe seat of his own pain. Possibly Swedenborg paid thepenalty of introverted faculties. Success, or a fortunate genius,seems to depend on a happy adjustment of heart and brain; ona due proportion, hard to hit, of moral and mental power,which, perhaps, obeys the law of those chemical ratios whichmake a proportion in volumes necessary to combination, aswhen gases will combine in certain fixed rates, but not at any rate. It is hard to carry a full cup: and this man, profuselyendowed in heart and mind, early fell into dangerous discord with himself. In his ' Animal Kingdom,' he surprised us bydeclaring that he loved analysis, and not synthesis; and now,after his fiftieth year, he falls into jealousy of his intellect;and, though aware that truth is not solitary, nor is goodnesssolitary, but both must ever mix and marry, he makes war onhis mind, takes the part of the conscience against it, and, on all occasions, traduces and blasphemes it. The violence isinstantly avenged. Beauty is disgraced, love is unlovely, whentruth, the half part of heaven, is denied, as much as when abitterness in men of talent leads to satire, and destroys thejudgment. He is wise, but wise in his own despite. There is an air of infinite grief, and the sound of wailing, all over andthrough this lurid universe. A vampyre sits in the seat of theprophet, and turns with gloomy appetite to the images of pain.Indeed, a bird does not more readily weave its nest, or a mole bore into the ground, than this seer of the souls substructs anew hell and pit, each more abominable than the last, roundevery new crew of offenders. He was let down through acolumn that seemed of brass, but it was formed of angelicspirits, that he might descend safely amongst the unhappy, andwitness the vastation of souls; and heard there, for a long continuance, their lamentations; he saw their tormentors, whoincrease and strain pangs to infinity; he saw the hell of thejugglers, the hell of the assassins, the hell of the lascivious;the hell of robbers, who kill and boil men; the infernal tun ofthe deceitful; the excrementitious hells; the hell of the revengeful, whose faces resembled a round, broad cake, and theirarms rotate like a wheel. Except Rabelais and Dean Swift,nobody ever had such science of filth and corruption.These books should be used with caution. It is dangerousto sculpture these evanescing images of thought. True in transition, they become false if fixed. It requires, for his just apprehension, almost a genius equal to his own. But when his visions become the stereotyped language of multitudes ofSWEDENBORG; OR, THE MYSTIC. 329persons, of all degrees of age and capacity, they are perverted.The wise people of the Greek race were accustomed to lead themost intelligent and virtuous young men, as part of theireducation, through the Eleusinian mysteries, wherein, with much pomp and graduation, the highest truths known toancient wisdom were taught. An ardent and contemplative young man, at eighteen or twenty years, might read once thesebooks of Swedenborg, these mysteries of love and conscience,and then throw them aside for ever. Genius is ever hauntedby similar dreams, when the hells and the heavens are opened to it. But these pictures are to be held as mystical, that is, asa quite arbitrary and accidental picture of the truth-not asthe truth. Any other symbol would be as good: then this issafely seen.Swedenborg's system of the world wants central spontaneity;it is dynamic, not vital, and lacks power to generate life.There is no individual in it. The universe is a giganticcrystal, all whose atoms and lamina lie in uninterrupted order,and with unbroken unity, but cold and still. What seems an individual and a will, is none. There is an immense chain ofintermediation, extending from centre to extremes, which bereaves every agency of all freedom and character. Theuniverse, in his poem, suffers under a magnetic sleep, and only reflects the mind of the magnetizer. Every thought comesinto each mind by influence from a society of spirits thatsurround it, and into these from a higher society, and so on. Allhis types mean the same few things. All his figures speak onespeech. All his interlocutors Swedenborgise. Be they whothey may, to this complexion must they come at last . This Charon ferries them all over in his boat; kings, counsellors,cavaliers, doctors, Sir Isaac Newton, Sir Hans Sloane, KingGeorge II. , Mahomet, or whosoever, and all gather one grimness of hue and style. Only when Cicero comes by, our gentle seersticks a little at saying he talked with Cicero, and, with atouch of human relenting, remarks, “ one whom it was givenme to believe was Cicero; " and when the soi- disant Romanopens his mouth, Rome and eloquence have ebbed away—it is plain theologic Swedenborg, like the rest. His heavens and hells are dull; fault of want of individualism . The thousand- fold relation of men is not there. The interest that attachesin nature to each man, because he is right by his wrong, andwrong by his right, because he defies all dogmatising and classification, so many allowances, and contingencies, andfuturities are to be taken into account, strong by his vices,often paralysed by his virtues-sinks into entire sympathywith his society. This want reacts to the centre of the system.330 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.Though the agency of "the Lord " is in every line referred to by name, it never becomes alive. There is no lustre in thateye which gazes from the centre, and which should vivify the immense dependency of beings.The vice of Swedenborg's mind is its theologic determination.Nothing with him has the liberality of universal wisdom, butwe are always in a church. That Hebrew muse, which taught the lore of right and wrong to men, had the same excess of influence for him it has had for the nations. The mode, aswell as the essence, was sacred. Palestine is ever the morevaluable as a chapter in universal history, and ever the less anavailable element in education. The genius of Swedenborg,largest of all modern souls in this department of thought,wasted itself in the endeavour to re-animate and conserve whathad already arrived at its natural term, and, in the greatsecular Providence, was retiring from its prominence, beforewestern modes of thought and expression. Swedenborg and Behmen both failed by attaching themselves to the Christiansymbol, instead of to the moral sentiment, which carries innumerable christianities, humanities, divinities, in its bosom.The excess of influence shows itself in the_incongruousimportation of a foreign rhetoric. What have I to do," asksthe impatient reader, " with jasper and sardonyx, beryl andchalcedony; what with arks and passovers, ephahs and ephods;what with lepers and emerods; what with heave-offerings andunleavened bread; chariots of fire, dragons crowned and horned,behemoth and unicorn? Good for orientals, these are nothingto me. The more learning you bring to explain them, themore glaring the impertinence. The more coherent and elaborate the system, the less I like it. I say, with the Spartan,'Why do you speak so much to the purpose, of that which isnothing to the purpose?' My learning is such as God gave me in my birth and habit, in the delight and study of my eyes,and not of another man's. Of all absurdities, this of someforeigner, proposing to take away my rhetoric, and substitute his own, and amuse me with pelican and stork, instead ofthrush and robin; palm-trees and sh*ttim-wood, instead ofsassafras and hickory-seems the most needless."66Locke said, " God, when he makes the prophet, does notunmake the man." Swedenborg's history points the remark.The parish disputes, in the Swedish church, between the friendsand foes of Luther and Melancthon, concerning " faith alone,"and " works alone," intrude themselves into his speculationsupon the economy of the universe, and of the celestial societies.The Lutheran bishop's son, for whom the heavens are opened,so that he sees with eyes, and in the richest symbolic forms,the awful truth of things, and utters again, in his books, asSWEDENBORG; OR, THE MYSTIC. 331under a heavenly mandate, the indisputable secrets of moralnature,—with all these grandeurs resting upon him, remainsthe Lutheran bishop's son; his judgments are those of aSwedish polemic, and his vast enlargements purchased by adamantine limitations. He carries his controversial memorywith him in his visits to the souls. He is like Michael Angelo,who, in his frescoes, put the cardinal who had offended him, toroast under a mountain of devils; or, like Dante, who avenged,in vindictive melodies, all his private wrongs; or, perhaps stillmore like Montaigne's parish priest, who, if a hail-storm passes over the village, thinks the day of doom is come, andthe cannibals already have got the pip. Swedenborg confoundsus not less with the pains of Melancthon, and Luther, andWolfius, and his own books, which he advertises among theangels.Under the same theologic cramp, many of his dogmas arebound. His cardinal position in morals is, that evils should be shunned as sins. But he does not know what evil is, orwhat good is, who thinks any ground remains to be occupied,after saying that evil is to be shunned as evil. I doubt not he was led by the desire to insert the element of personality of Deity. But nothing is added. One man, you say, dreadserysipelas-show him that this dread is evil: or, one dreads hell-show him that dread is evil. He who loves goodness,harbours angels, reveres reverence, and lives with God. The less we have to do with our sins the better. No man can afford to waste his moments in compunctions. " That isactive duty," say the Hindoos, “ which is not for our bondage;that is knowledge, which is for our liberation: all other duty is good only unto weariness."Another dogma, growing out of this pernicious theologic limitation, is this Inferno. Swedenborg has devils. Evil,according to old philosophers, is good in the making. That pure malignity can exist is the extreme proposition of unbelief.It is not to be entertained by a rational agent; it is atheism;it is the last profanation. Euripides rightly said, —Goodness and being in the gods are one;He who imputes ill to them makes them none.To what a painful perversion had Gothic theology arrived,that Swedenborg admitted no conversion for evil spirits! But the Divine effort is never relaxed; the carrion in the sun willconvert itself to grass and flowers; and man, though inbrothels, or jails, or on gibbets, is on his way to all that isgood and true. Burns, with the wild humour of his apostrophe to " poor old Nickie Ben,"O wad ye tak a thought, and mend!332 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.66nas the advantage of the vindictive theologian. Everythingis superficial, and perishes, but love and truth only. Thelargest is always the truest sentiment, and we feel the more generous spirit of the Indian Vishnu,- "I amthe same to allmankind. There is not one who is worthy of my love orhatred. They who serve me with adoration, -I am in them,and they in me. If one whose ways are altogether evil, serveme alone, he is as respectable as the just man; he is altogetherwell employed; he soon becometh of a virtuous spirit, and obtaineth eternal happiness."For the anomalous pretension of Revelations of the otherworld, only his probity and genius can entitle it to anyserious regard. His revelations destroy their credit byrunning into detail. If a man say that the Holy Ghost has informedhim that the Last Judgment (or the last of the judgments)took place in 1757; or that the Dutch, in the other world, livein a heaven by themselves, and the English in a heaven bythemselves; I reply, that the Spirit which is holy, is reserved,taciturn, and deals in laws. The rumours of ghosts and hobgoblins gossip and tell fortunes. The teachings of the highSpirit are abstemious, and, in regard to particulars, negative.Socrates' Genius did not advise him to act or to find, but ifhe purposed to do somewhat not advantageous, it dissuaded him. "What God is, " he said, " I know not; what he is not,I know." The Hindoos have denominated the Supreme Beingthe "Internal Check." The illuminated Quakers explainedtheir Light, not as somewhat which leads to any action, but itappears as an obstruction to anything unfit. But the rightexamples are private experiences, which are absolutely at oneon this point. Strictly speaking, Swedenborg's revelation isa confounding of planes, -a capital offence in so learned acategorist. This is to carry the law of surface into the plane of substance, to carry individualism and its fopperies intothe realm of essences and generals, which is dislocation and chaos.The secret of heaven is kept from age to age. No imprudent, no sociable angel ever dropt an early syllable to answer the longings of saints, the fears of mortals. We shouldhave listened on our knees to any favourite, who, by stricterobedience, had brought his thoughts into parallelism with the celestial currents, and could hint to human ears the sceneryand circ*mstance of the newly parted soul. But it is certainthat it must tally with what is best in nature. It must notbe inferior in tone to the already known works of the artist whosculptures the globes of the firmament, and writes the moral law. It must be fresher than rainbows, stabler than mountains,agreeing with flowers, with tides, and the rising and setting ofSWEDENBORG; OR, THE MYSTIC. 333autumnal stars . Melodious poets shall be hoarse as streetballads, when once the penetrating key-note of nature and spirit is sounded, the earth-beat, sea-beat, heart-beat, which makes the tune to which the sun rolls, and the globule of blood,and the sap of trees.In this mood, we hear the rumour that the seer has arrived,and his tale is told. But there is no beauty, no heaven, forangels, goblins. The sad muse loves night and death, andthe pit. His Inferno is mesmeric. His spiritual world bearsthe same relation to the generosities and joys of truth, of whichhuman souls have already made us cognisant, as a man's baddreams bear to his ideal life. It is indeed very like, in its endless power of lurid pictures, to the phenomena of dreaming,which nightly turns many an honest gentleman, benevolent,but dyspeptic, into a wretch, skulking like a dog about theouter yards and kennels of creation. When he mounts into theheaven, I do not hear its language. A man should not tell methat he has walked among the angels; his proof is , that hiseloquence makes me one. Shall the archangels be less majesticand sweet than the figures that have actually walked the earth?These angels that Swedenborg paints give us no very highidea of their discipline and culture: they are all country parsons: their heaven is a fête champêtre, an evangelical pic- nic, orFrench distribution of prizes to virtuous peasants. Strange,scholastic, didactic, passionless, bloodless man, who denotesclasses of souls as a botanist disposes of a carex, and visits doleful hells as a stratum of chalk or hornblende! He has nosympathy. He goes up and down the world of men, a modernRhadamanthus in gold- headed cane and peruke, and with nonchalance, and the air of a referee, distributes souls. The warm,many-weathered, passionate-peopled world is to him a grammarof hieroglyphs, or an emblematic freemasons' procession. How different is Jacob Behmen! he is tremulous with emotion, andlistens awe- struck, with the gentlest humanity, to the Teacherwhose lessons he conveys; and when he asserts that, " in somesort, love is greater than God, " his heart beats so high that thethumping against his leathern coat is audible across the cen- turies. Tis a great difference. Behmen is healthily andbeautifully wise, notwithstanding the mystical narrowness andincommunicableness. Swedenborg is disagreeably wise, and,with all his accumulated gifts , paralyzes and repels.It is the best sign of a great nature, that it opens a foreground, and, like the breath of morning landscapes, invites usonward. Swedenborg is retrospective, nor can we divest him of his mattock and shroud. Some minds are for ever restrainedfrom descending into nature; others are for ever preventedfrom ascending out of it. With a force of many men, he334 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.could never break the umbilical cord which held him to nature,and he did not rise to the platform of pure genius.It is remarkable that this man, who, by his perception of symbols, saw the poetic construction of things, and theprimary relation of mind to matter, remained entirely devoidof the whole apparatus of poetic expression which that per- ception creates. He knew the grammar and rudiments of theMother- Tongue-how could he not read off one strain into music? Was he like Saadi, who, in his vision, designed to fillhis lap with the celestial flowers, as presents for his friends;but the fragrance of the roses so intoxicated him, that theskirt dropped from his hands? or, is reporting a breach of themanners of that heavenly society? or, was it that he saw thevision intellectually, and hence that chiding of the intellectualthat pervades his books? Be it as it may, his books have nomelody, no emotion, no humour, no relief to the dead prosaic level. In his profuse and accurate imagery is no pleasure, for there is no beauty. We wander forlorn in a lack-lustre landscape. No bird ever sang in all these gardens of the dead.The entire want of poetry in so transcendent a mind betokensthe disease, and, like a hoarse voice in a beautiful person, is akind of warning. I think, sometimes, he will not be readlonger. His great name will turn a sentence. His books havebecome a monument. His laurel so largely mixed with cypress,a charnel-breath so mingles with the temple incense, that boys and maids will shun the spot.Yet, in this immolation of genius and fame at the shrine of conscience, is a merit sublime beyond praise. He lived topurpose: he gave a verdict. He elected goodness as the clueto which the soul must cling in all this labyrinth of nature.Many opinions conflict as to the true centre. In the shipwreck, some cling to running rigging, some to cask and barrel,some to spars, some to mast; the pilot chooses with science, -I plant myself here; all will sink before this; "he comes to land who sails with me." Do not rely on heavenly favour, oron compassion to folly, or on prudence, on common sense, theold usage and main chance of men: nothing can keep younot fate, nor health, nor admirable intellect; none can keepyou, but rectitude only, rectitude for ever and ever! -and,with a tenacity that never swerved in all his studies, inventions,dreams, he adheres to this brave choice. I think of him as ofsome transmigrating votary of Indian legend, who say?' though I be dog, or jackal, or pismire, in the last rudimentsof nature, under what integument or ferocity, I cleave to right, as the sure ladder that leads up to man and to God.'Swedenborg has rendered a double service to mankind,which is now only beginning to be known. By the science ofMONTAIGNE; OR, THE SCEPTIC.335experiment and use he made his first steps: he observed andpublished the laws of nature; and, ascending by just degrees,from events to their summits and causes, he was fired withpiety at the harmonies he felt, and abandoned himself to hisjoy and worship. This was his first service. If the glory was too bright for his eyes to bear, if he staggered under the tranceof delight, the more excellent is the spectacle he saw, therealities of being which beam and blaze through him, andwhich no infirmities of the prophet are suffered to obscure;and he renders a second passive service to men, not less thanthe first-perhaps, in the great circle of being, and in theretributions of spiritual nature, not less glorious or less beau- tiful to himself.EIV. -MONTAIGNE; OR, THE SCEPTIC.VERY fact is related on one side to sensation, and, on theother, to morals. The game of thought is, on the appearance of one of these two sides, to find the other: given the upper, to find the under side. Nothing so thin, but has thesetwo faces; and, when the observer has seen the obverse, he turns it over to see the reverse. Life is a pitching of thispenny-heads or tails. We never tire of this game, becausethere is still a slight shudder of astonishment at the exhibition of the other face, at the contrast of the two faces. A man isflushed with success, and bethinks himself what this good lucksignifies. He drives his bargain in the street; but it occurs,that he also is bought and sold. He sees the beauty of ahuman face, and searches the cause of that beauty, which must be more beautiful. He builds his fortunes, maintains thelaws, cherishes his children; but he asks himself, why? andwhereto? This head and this tail are called, in the languageof philosophy, Infinite and Finite; Relative and Absolute;Apparent and Real; and many fine names beside.Each man is born with a predisposition to one or the otherof these sides of nature; and it will easily happen that men will be found devoted to one or the other. One class has theperception of difference, and is conversant with facts andsurfaces; cities and persons; and the bringing certain things to pass; the men of talent and action. Another class havethe perception of identity, and are men of faith and philosophy, men of genius.Each of these riders drives too fast.in philosophers; Fénélon, in saints;Plotinus believes onlyPindar and Byron, in336 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.Thepoets. Read the haughty language in which Plato and thePlatonists speak of all men who are not devoted to their ownshining abstractions: other men are rats and mice.literary class is usually proud and exclusive. The correspond- ence of Pope and Swift describes mankind around them asmonsters; and that of Goethe and Schiller, in our own time,is scarcely more kind.It is easy to see how this arrogance comes. The genius isa genius by the first look he casts on any object. Is his eye creative? Does he not rest in angles and colours, but beholdsthe design—he will presently undervalue the actual object. In powerful moments, his thought has dissolved the works of artand nature into their causes, so that the works appear heavyand faulty. He has a conception of beauty which the sculptorcannot embody. Picture, statue, temple, railroad, steamengine, existed first in an artist's mind, without flaw, mistake,or friction, which impair the executed models. So did thechurch, the state, college, court, social circle, and all the institutions. It is not strange that these men, rememberingwhat they have seen and hoped of ideas, should affirm disdainfully the superiority of ideas. Having at some time seen that the happy soul will carry all the arts in power, they say, Whycumber ourselves with superfluous realizations? and, likedreaming beggars, they assume to speak and act as if these values were already substantiated.On the other part, the men of toil and trade and luxurythe animal world, including the animal in the philosopher andpoet also and the practical world, including the painfuldrudgeries which are never excused to philosopher or poet anymore than to the rest-weigh heavily on the other side. Thetrade in our streets believes in no metaphysical causes, thinksnothing of the force which necessitated traders and a tradingplanet to exist: no; but sticks to cotton, sugar, wool, and saltThe ward meetings, on election days, are not softened by any misgiving of the value of these ballotings. Hot life is streaming in a single direction. To the men of this world, to theanimal strength and spirits, to the men of practical power,whilst immersed in it, the man of ideas appears out of hisreason. They alone have reason.Things always bring their own philosophy with them, that is, prudence. No man acquires property without acquiringwith it a little arithmetic, also. In England, the richest country that ever existed, property stands for more, comparedwith personal ability, than in any other. After dinner, a man believes less, denies more: verities have lost some charm.After dinner, arithmetic is the only science: ideas are disturbing, incendiary, follies of young men, repudiated by theMONTAIGNE; OR, THE SCEPTIC. 33766solid portion of society; and a man comes to be valued by hisathletic and animal qualities. Spence relates, that Mr. Popewas with Sir Godfrey Kneller, one day, when his nephew, aGuinea trader, came in. Nephew," said Sir Godfrey, "youhave the honour of seeing the two greatest men in the world.”' I don't know how great men you may be," said the Guineaman, “ but I don't like your looks . I have often bought a manmuch better than both of you, all muscles and bones, for tenguineas. " Thus, the men of the senses revenge themselves on the professors, and repay scorn for scorn. The first had leapedto conclusions not yet ripe, and say more than is true; theothers make themselves merry with the philosopher, and weigh man by the pound. They believe that mustard bites thetongue, that pepper is hot, friction- matches are incendiary,revolvers to be avoided, and suspenders hold up pantaloons;that there is much sentiment in a chest of tea; and a man willbe eloquent, if you give him good wine. Are you tender and scrupulous-you must eat more mince-pie. They hold that Luther had milk in him when he said," Wer nicht liebt Wein , Weib, und Gesang,Der bleibt ein Narr sein Leben lang;"99and when he advised a young scholar, perplexed with foreordination and free-will, to get well drunk."The nerves, "says Cabanis, " they are the man.' My neighbour, a jolly farmer, in the tavern bar-room, thinks that the use of moneyis sure and speedy spending. "For his part," he says, "heputs his down his neck, and gets the good of it. "The inconvenience of this way of thinking is, that it runs into indifferentism, and then into disgust. Life is eating usup. We shall be fables presently. Keep cool: it will be allone a hundred years hence. Life's well enough; but we shall be glad to get out of it, and they will all be glad to have us.Why should we fret and drudge? Our meat will taste_to- morrow as it did yesterday, and we may at last have had enough of it. Ah, " said my languid gentleman at Oxford,"there's nothing new or true and no matter."66With a little more bitterness, the cynic moans: our life islike an ass led to market by a bundle of hay being carried before him: he sees nothing but the bundle of hay. ' Thereis so much trouble in coming into the world," said Lord Bolingbroke, "and so much more, as well as meanness, ingoing out of it, that ' tis hardly worth while to be here at all. "I knew a philosopher of this kidney, who was accustomedbriefly to sum up his experience of human nature in saying,"Mankind is a damned rascal: " and the natural corollary VOL. I. Z338 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.is pretty sure to follow- The world lives by humbug, and so will I.'The abstractionist and the materialist thus mutually exas- perating each other, and the scoffer expressing the worst ofmaterialism, there arises a third party to occupy the middleground between these two, the sceptic, namely. He finds both wrong by being in extremes. He labours to plant his feet, tobe the beam of the balance. He will not go beyond his card.He sees the one-sidedness of these men of the street; he willnot be a Gibeonite; he stands for the intellectual faculties, acool head, and whatever serves to keep it cool: no unadvisedindustry, no unrewarded self- devotion, no loss of the brains intoil. Am I an ox, or a dray?-You are both in extremes, hesays. You that will have all solid, and a world of pig- lead,deceive yourselves grossly. You believe yourselves rooted andgrounded on adamant; and yet, if we uncover the last facts ofour knowledge, you are spinning like bubbles in a river, you know not whither or whence, and you are bottomed and capped and wrapped in delusions.Neither will he be betrayed to a book, and wrapped in agown. The studious class are their own victims: they arethin and pale, their feet are cold, their heads are hot, the nightis without sleep, the day a fear of interruption-pallor, squalor,hunger, and egotism. If you come near them, and see whatconceits they entertain-they are abstractionists, and spendtheir days and nights in dreaming some dream; in expectingthe homage of society to some precious scheme built on atruth, but destitute of proportion in its presentment, of justness in its application, and of all energy of will in the schemer to embody and vitalize it.But I see plainly, he says, that I cannot see. I know thathuman strength is not in extremes, but in avoiding extremes.I, at least, will shun the weakness of philosophizing beyondmy depth. What is the use of pretending to powers we have not? What is the use of pretending to assurances we havenot, respecting the other life? Why exaggerate the power of virtue? Why be an angel before your time? These strings,wound up too high, will snap. If there is a wish for immortality, and no evidence, why not say just that? If there are conflicting evidences, why not state them? If there is not ground for a candid thinker to make up his mind, yea or nay-why not suspend the judgment? I weary of these dogma- tizers. I tire of these hacks of routine, who deny the dogmas.I neither affirm nor deny. I stand here to try the case. I am here to consider, σKETTEL , to consider how it is. I will try tokeep the balance true. Of what use to take the chair, andglibly rattle off theories of society, religion, and nature, whenMONTAIGNE; OR, THE SCEPTIC. 339I know that practical objections lie in the way, insurmountableby me and by my mates? Why so talkative in public wheneach of my neighbours can pin me to myseat by arguments Icannot refute? Why pretend that life is so simple a game,when we know how subtle and elusive the Proteus is? Why think to shut up all things in your narrow coop, when we knowthere are not one or two only, but ten, twenty, a thousandthings, and unlike? Why fancy that you have all the truth in your keeping? There is much to say on all sides.

Who shall forbid a wise scepticism , seeing that there is nopractical question on which anything more than an approxi- mate solution can be had? Is not marriage an open question,when it is alleged, from the beginning of the world, that such as are in the institution wish to get out, and such as are outwish to get in? And the reply of Socrates, to him who asked whether he should choose a wife, still remains reasonable,"that, whether he should choose one or not, he would repentit." Is not the state a question? All society is divided inopinion on the subject of the state. Nobody loves it; great numbers dislike it, and suffer conscientious scruples to allegiance and the only defence set up, is, the fear of doing worse in disorganizing. Is it otherwise with the church? Or,to put any of the questions which touch mankind nearestshall the young man aim at a leading part in law, in politics,in trade? It will not be pretended that a success in either ofthese kinds is quite coincident with what is best and inmost in his mind. Shall he, then, cutting the stays that hold himfast to the social state, put out to sea with no guidance buthis genius? There is much to say on both sides. Rememberthe open question between the present order of " competition,"and the friends of " attractive and associated labour." Thegenerous minds embrace the proposition of labour shared byall; it is the only honesty; nothing else is safe. It is from the poor man's hut alone, that strength and virtue come: andyet, on the other side, it is alleged that labour impairs theform, and breaks the spirit of man, and the labourers cryunanimously, 'We have no thoughts.' Culture, how indispensable! I cannot forgive you the want of accomplishments;and yet, culture will instantly destroy that chiefest beauty of spontaneousness. Excellent is culture for a savage; but oncelet him read in the book, and he is no longer able not to think of Plutarch's heroes. In short, since true fortitude of understanding consists " in not letting what we knowbe embarrassedby what we do not know," we ought to secure those advantageswhich we can command, and not risk them by clutching afterthe airy and unattainable. Come, no chimeras! Let us goabroad; let us mix in affairs; let us learn, and get, and have,340 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.and climb. "Men are a sort of moving plants, and, like trees,receive a great part of their nourishment from the air. Ifthey keep too much at home, they pine." Let us have arobust, manly life; let us know what we know, for certain;what we have, let it be solid, and seasonable, and our own. Aworld in the hand is worth two in the bush. Let us haveto do with real men and women, and not with skippingghosts.This, then, is the right ground of the sceptic-this of con- sideration, of self-containing; not at all of unbelief; not at allof universal denying, nor of universal doubting-doubtingeven that he doubts; least of all, of scoffing and profligatejeering at all that is stable and good. These are no more hismoods than are those of religion and philosophy. He is the considerer, the prudent, taking in sail, counting stock, husbanding his means, believing that a man has too many enemies,than that he can afford to be his own; that we cannot giveourselves too many advantages, in this unequal conflict, with powers so vast and unweariable ranged on one side, and thislittle, conceited, vulnerable popinjay that a man is, bobbing up and down into every danger, on the other. It is a positiontaken up for better defence, as of more safety, and one thatcan be maintained; and it is one of more opportunity and range; as, when we build a house, the rule is, to set it not toohigh nor too low, under the wind, but out of the dirt.The philosophy we want is one of fluxions and mobility.The Spartan and Stoic schemes are too stark and stiff for our occasion. A theory of Saint John, and of non- resistance,seems, on the other hand, too thin and aërial. We want somecoat woven of elastic steel, stout as the first, and limber as thesecond. We want a ship in these billows we inhabit. Anangular, dogmatic house would be rent to chips and splinters,in this storm of many elements. No, it must be tight, and fit to the form of man, to live at all; as a shell is the architecture of a house founded on the sea. The soul of man must be thetype of our scheme, just as the body of man is the type afterwhich a dwelling- house is built. Adaptiveness is the peculi- arity of human nature. We are golden averages, volitantstabilities, compensated or periodic errors, houses founded on the sea. The wise sceptic wishes to have a near view of thebest game, and the chief players; what is best in the planet;art and nature, places and events, but mainly men. Every- thing that is excellent in mankind—a form of grace, an arm ofiron, lips of persuasion, a brain of resources, every one skilfulto play and win-he will see and judge.The terms of admission to this spectacle, are, that he have a certain solid and intelligible way of living of his own; someMONTAIGNE; OR, THE SCEPTIC. 341method of answering the inevitable needs of human life; proofthat he has played with skill and success; that he has evincedthe temper, stoutness, and the range of qualities which, amonghis contemporaries and countrymen, entitle him to fellowship and trust. For, the secrets of life are not shown except to sympathy and likeness . Men do not confide themselves toboys, or coxcombs, or pedants, but to their peers. Some wiselimitation, as the modern phrase is; some condition betweenthe extremes, and having itself a positive quality; some starkand sufficient man, who is not salt or sugar, but sufficientlyrelated to the world to do justice to Paris or London, and, atthe same time, a vigorous and original thinker, whom cities cannot overawe, but who uses them,-is the fit person tooccupy this ground of speculation.These qualities meet in the character of Montaigne. Andyet, since the personal regard which I entertain for Montaignemay be unduly great, I will, under the shield of this prince of egotists, offer, as an apology for electing him as the repre- sentative of scepticism, a word or two to explain how my lovebegan and grew for this admirable gossip.A single odd volume of Cotton's translation of the Essaysremained to me from my father's library, when a boy. Itlay long neglected, until, after many years, when I was newlyescaped from college, I read the book, and procured theremaining volumes. I remember the delight and wonder in which I lived with it. It seemed to me as if I had myselfwritten the book, in some former life, so sincerely it spoke to my thought and experience. It happened, when in Paris, in1833, that, in the cemetery of Père le Chaise, I came to a tombof Auguste Collignon, who died in 1830, aged sixty- eightyears, and who, said the monument, "lived to do right, and had formed himself to virtue on the Essays of Montaigne."Some years later, I became acquainted with an accomplishedEnglish poet, John Sterling; and, in prosecuting my correspondence, I found that, from a love of Montaigne, he hadmade a pilgrimage to his château, still standing near Castellan,in Perigord, and, after two hundred and fifty years, had copied from the walls of his library the inscriptions which Montaigne had written there. That Journal of Mr. Sterling's, publishedin the Westminster Review, Mr. Hazlitt has reprinted in the Prolegomena to his edition of the Essays. I heard withpleasure that one of the newly- discovered autographs ofWilliam Shakespeare was in a copy of Florio's translationof Montaigne. It is the only book which we certainly knowto have been in the poet's library. And, oddly enough, the duplicate copy of Florio, which the British Museum purchased, with a view of protecting the Shakespeare autograph342 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.(as I was informed in the Museum) turned out to have theautograph of Ben Jonson in the fly-leaf. Leigh Hunt relatesof Lord Byron, that Montaigne was the only great writer of past times whom he read with avowed satisfaction. Othercoincidences, not needful to be mentioned here, concurred to make this old Gascon still new and immortal for me.In 1571, on the death of his father, Montaigne, then thirtyeight years old, retired from the practice of law, at Bordeaux,and settled himself on his estate. Though he had been a manof pleasure, and sometimes a courtier, his studious habits now grew on him, and he loved the compass, staidness, and inde- pendence of the country gentleman's life. He took up hiseconomy in good earnest, and made his farms yield the most.Downright and plain- dealing, and abhorring to be deceived or to deceive, he was esteemed in the country for his sense andprobity. In the civil wars of the League, which convertedevery house into a fort, Montaigne kept his gates open, and his house without defence. All parties freely came and went,his courage and honour being universally esteemed. Theneighbouring lords and gentry brought jewels and papersto him for safe keeping. Gibbon reckons, in these bigotedtimes, but two men of liberality in France, -Henry IV. andMontaigne.Montaigne is the frankest and honestest of all writers. HisFrench freedom runs into grossness; but he has anticipated all censure by the bounty of his own confessions. In histimes, books were written to one sex only, and almost all werewritten in Latin; so that, in a humorist, a certain nakednessof statement was permitted, which our manners, of a literatureaddressed equally to both sexes, do not allow. But, thougha biblical plainness, coupled with a most uncanonical levity,may shut his pages to many sensitive readers, yet the offenceis superficial. He parades it: he makes the most of it:nobody can think or say worse of him than he does. Hepretends to most of the vices; and, if there be any virtue inhim, he says, it got in by stealth. There is no man, in hisopinion, who has not deserved hanging five or six times; and he pretends no exception in his own behalf. "Five or six as ridiculous stories," too, he says, can be told of me, as of anyman living." But with all this really superfluous frankness, theopinion of aninvincible probity grows into every reader's mind."When I the most strictly and religiously confess myself,I find that the best virtue I have has in it some tincture ofvice; and I am afraid that Plato, in his purest virtue (I, whoam as sincere and perfect a lover of virtue of that stamp asany other whatever), if he had listened, and laid his ear close to himself, would have heard some jarring sound of human66MONTAIGNE; OR, THE SCEPTIC. 343·mixture; but faint and remote, and only to be perceived by himself."Here is an impatience and fastidiousness at colour or pretence of any kind. He has been in courts so long as to have conceived a furious disgust at appearances; he will indulgehimself with a little cursing and swearing; he will talk withsailors and gipsies, use flash and street ballads: he has stayed in-doors till he is deadly sick; he will to the open air, though it rain bullets. He has seen too much of gentlemen of thelong robe, until he wishes for cannibals; and is so nervous,by factitious life, that he thinks, the more barbarous man is,the better he is. He likes his saddle. You may read theology,and grammar, and metaphysics elsewhere. Whatever you get here, shall smack of the earth and of real life, sweet, or smart,or stinging. He makes no hesitation to entertain you with the records of his disease; and his journey to Italy is quitefull of that matter. He took and kept this position of equi- librium. Over his name, he drew an emblematic pair ofscales, and wrote Que sçais je? under it. As I look at hiseffigy opposite the title-page, I seem to hear him say, ' Youmay play old Poz, if you will; you may rail and exaggerate, —I stand here for truth, and will not, for all the states, andchurches, and revenues, and personal reputations of Europe,overstate the dry fact, as I see it; I will rather mumble andprose about what I certainly know, -my house and barns;my father, my wife, and my tenants; my old lean bald pate;my knives and forks; what meats I eat, and what drinks Íprefer; and a hundred straws just as ridiculous ,—than I will write, with a fine crow-quill, a fine romance. I like gray days,and autumn and winter weather. I am gray and autumnal myself, and think an undress, and old shoes that do not pinchmy feet, and old friends who do not constrain me, and plaintopics where I do not need to strain myself and pump mybrains, the most suitable. Our condition as men is risky and ticklish enough. One cannot be sure of himself and hisfortune an hour, but he may be whisked off into some pitiable or ridiculous plight. Why should I vapour and play thephilosopher, instead of ballasting, the best I can, this dancing balloon? So, at least, I live within compass, keep myselfready for action, and can shoot the gulf, at last, with decency.If there be anything farcical in such a life, the blame is not mine: let it lie at fate's and nature's door.'The Essays, therefore, are an entertaining soliloquy onevery random topic that comes into his head; treating every- thing without ceremony, yet with masculine sense. Therehave been men with deeper insight; but, one would say, never a man with such abundance of thoughts: he is never dull,344 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.never insincere, and has the genius to make the reader care for all that he cares for.The sincerity and marrow of the man reaches to his sentences. I know not anywhere the book that seems less written.It is the language of conversation transferred to a book. Cutthese words, and they would bleed; they are vascular andalive. One has the same pleasure in it that we have in listening to the necessary speech of men about their work,when any unusual circ*mstance gives momentary importance to the dialogue. For blacksmiths and teamsters do not tripin their speech; it is a shower of bullets. It is Cambridgemen who correct themselves, and begin again at every halfsentence, and, moreover, will pun, and refine too much, andswerve from the matter to the expression. Montaigne talks with shrewdness, knows the world, and books, and himself,and uses the positive degree: never shrieks, or protests, orprays: no weakness, no convulsion, no superlative: does not wish to jump out of his skin, or play any antics, or annihilatespace or time; but is stout and solid; tastes every moment of the day; likes pain, because it makes him feel himself, andrealize things; as we pinch ourselves to know that we areawake. He keeps the plain; he rarely mounts or sinks; likesto feel solid ground, and the stones underneath. His writing has no enthusiasms, no aspiration; contented, self- respecting,and keeping the middle of the road. There is but one exception, -in his love for Socrates. In speaking of him, for once his cheek flushes, and his style rises to passion.Montaigne died of a quinsy, at the age of sixty, in 1592.When he came to die, he caused the mass to be celebrated in his chamber. At the age of thirty-three, he had beenmarried. " But," he says, " might I have had my own will,I would not have married Wisdom herself, if she would haveme: but ' tis to much purpose to evade it, the common custom and use of life will have it so. Most of my actions are guidedby example, not choice." In the hour of death, he gave the same weight to custom. Que sçais je? What do I know?This book of Montaigne the world has endorsed, by translating it into all tongues, and printing seventy- five editions ofit in Europe: and that, too, a circulation somewhat chosen,namely, among courtiers, soldiers, princes, men of the world,and men of wit and generosity.Shall we say that Montaigne has spoken wisely, and given the right and permanent expression ofthe human mind, on the conduct of life?We are natural believers. Truth, or the connection betweenMONTAIGNE; OR, THE SCEPTIC. 345cause and effect, alone interests us. We are persuaded that athread runs through all things: all worlds are strung on it, as beads and men, and events, and life, come to us, only because ofthat thread: they pass and repass, only that we may know thedirection and continuity of that line. A book or statementwhich goes to show that there is no line, but random andchaos, a calamity out of nothing, a prosperity and no accountof it, a hero born from a fool, a fool from a hero-dispirits us.Seen or unseen, we believe the tie exists. Talent makescounterfeit ties; genius finds the real ones. We hearken tothe man of science, because we anticipate the sequence in natural phenomena which he uncovers. We love whateveraffirms, connects, preserves; and dislike what scatters or pullsdown. One man appears whose nature is to all men's eyesconserving and constructive: his presence supposes a well- ordered society, agriculture, trade, large institutions, andempire. If these did not exist, they would begin to existthrough his endeavours. Therefore, he cheers and comfortsmen, who feel all this in him very readily. The nonconformistand the rebel say all manner of unanswerable things against theexisting republic, but discover to our sense no plan of house or state of their own. Therefore, though the town, and state, andwayof living, which our counsellor contemplated, might be avery modest or musty prosperity, yet men rightly go for him, and reject the reformer, so long as he comes only with axe and crowbar.But though we are natural conservers and causationists, and reject a sour, dumpish unbelief, the sceptical class, whichMontaigne represents, have reason, and every man, at sometime, belongs to it. Every superior mind will pass throughthis domain of equilibration-I should rather say, will know how to avail himself of the checks and balances in nature, as anatural weapon against the exaggeration and formalism of bigots and blockheads.Scepticism is the attitude assumed by the student in relation to the particulars which society adores, but which he sees to be reverend only in their tendency and spirit. The groundoccupied by the sceptic is the vestibule of the temple. Society does not like to have any breath of question blown on the existing order. But the interrogation of custom at all points is an inevitable stage in the growth of every superior mind, and is the evidence of its perception of the flowing power which remains itself in all changes.The superior mind will find itself equally at odds with theevils of society, and with the projects that are offered to relieve them. The wise sceptic is a bad citizen; no conservative; he sees the selfishness of property, and the drowsinessof institutions. But neither is he fit to work with any demo-346 REPRESENTATIVE MENcratic party that ever was constituted; for parties wish everyone committed, and he penetrates the popular patriotism. His politics are those of the " Soul's Errand " of Sir WalterRaleigh; or of Krishna, in the Bhagavat, " There is none whois worthy of my love or hatred;" whilst he sentences law,physic, divinity, commerce, and custom. He is a reformer:yet he is no better member of the philanthropic association.It turns out that he is not the champion of the operative, thepauper, the prisoner, the slave. It stands in his mind, that ourlife inthis world is not ofquite so easy interpretation as churches and school-books say. He does not wish to take groundagainst these benevolences, to play the part of devil's attorney,and blazon every doubt and sneer that darkens the sun forhim. But he says, There are doubts.I mean to use the occasion, and celebrate the calendar- day of our Saint Michael de Montaigne, by counting and describingthese doubts or negations. I wish to ferret them out of their holes, and sun them a little. We must do with them as thepolice do with old rogues, who are shown up to the public at the marshal's office. They will never be so formidable, whenonce they have been identified and registered. But I meanhonestly by them-that justice shall be done to their terrors.I shall not take Sunday objections, made up on purpose to beput down. I shall take the worst I can find, whether I can dispose of them, or they of me.I do not press the scepticism of the materialist. I know, thequadruped opinion will not prevail. 'Tis of no importance what bats and oxen think. The first dangerous symptom Ireport, is, the levity of intellect; as if it were fatal to earnestness to know much. Knowledge is the knowing that wecannot know. The dull pray; the geniuses are light mockers.How respectable is earnestness on every platform! but intellectkills it. Nay, San Carlo, my subtle and admirable friend, one of the most penetrating of men, finds that all direct ascension,even of lofty piety, leads to this ghastly insight, and sendsback the votary orphaned. My astonishing San Carlo thoughtthe lawgivers and saints infected. They found the ark empty;saw, and would not tell; and tried to choke off their approaching followers, by saying, ' Action, action, my dear fellows, is for you! Bad as was to me this detection by San Carlo, thisfrost in July, this blow from a bride, there was still a worse.namely, the cloy or satiety of the saints. In the mount of vision, ere they have yet risen from their knees, they say, ' Wediscover that this our homage and beatitude is partial anddeformed: we must fly for relief to the suspected and reviled Intellect, to the Understanding, the Mephistopheles, to the gymnastics of talent.'MONTAIGNE; OR, THE SCEPTIC. 347This is hobgoblin the first; and, though it has been thesubject of much elegy, in our nineteenth century, from Byron,Goethe, and other poets of less fame, not to mention manydistinguished private observers-I confess it is not very affecting to my imagination; for it seems to concern theshattering of baby-houses and crockery- shops. What fluttersthe church of Rome, or of England, or of Geneva, or ofBoston, may yet be very far from touching any principle of faith. I think that the intellect and moral sentiment areunanimous; and that, though philosophy extirpates bugbears,yet it supplies the natural checks of vice, and polarity to the soul. I think that the wiser a man is, the more stupendous hefinds the natural and moral economy, and lifts himself to amore absolute reliance.There is the power of moods, each setting at nought all but its own tissue of facts and beliefs. There is the power of complexions, obviously modifying the dispositions and senti- ments. The beliefs and unbeliefs appear to be structural;and, as soon as each man attains the poise and vivacity which allow the whole machinery to play, he will not need extreme examples, but will rapidly alternate all opinions in his own life. Our life is March weather, savage and serene in onehour. We go forth austere, dedicated, believing in the iron links of Destiny, and will not turn on our heel to save our life:but a book, or a bust, or only the sound of a name, shoots aspark through the nerves, and we suddenly believe in will: my finger-ring shall be the seal of Solomon: fate is for imbeciles:all is possible to the resolved mind. Presently, a new experience gives a new turn to our thoughts: common sense resumes its tyranny: we say, ' Well, the army, after all, is the gate to fame, manners, and poetry: and, look you-on the whole,selfishness plants best, prunes best, makes the best commerce,and the best citizen.' Are the opinions of a man on right and wrong, on fate and causation, at the mercy of a broken sleepor an indigestion? Is his belief in God and Duty no deeper than a stomach evidence? And what guaranty for the permanence of his opinions? I like not the French celerity-a new church and state once a week. This is the second negation;and I shall let it pass for what it will. As far as it asserts rotation of states of mind, I suppose it suggests its own remedy, namely, in the record of larger periods. What is the mean of many states; of all the states? Does the generalvoice of ages affirm any principle, or is no community of sentiment discoverable in distant times and places? Andwhen it shows the power of self- interest, I accept that as part of the divine law, and must reconcile it with aspiration the best I can.348 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.The word Fate, or Destiny, expresses the sense of mankind.in all ages-that the laws of the world do not always befriend,but often hurt and crush us. Fate, in the shape of Kinde ornature, grows over us like grass. We paint Time with a scythe;Love and Fortune, blind; and Destiny, deaf. We have toolittle power of resistance against this ferocity which champsus up. What front can we make against these unavoidable,victorious, maleficent forces? What can I do against theinfluence of Race, in my history? What can I do againsthereditary and constitutional habits, against scrofula, lymph,impotence? against climate, against barbarism, in mycountry?I can reason down or deny everything, except this perpetual Belly feed he must and will, and I cannot make him re- spectable.But the main resistance which the affirmative impulsefinds, and one including all others, is in the doctrine of theIllusionists. There is a painful rumour in circulation, that wehave been practised upon in all the principal performances of life, and free agency is the emptiest name. We have beensopped and drugged with the air, with food, with woman, withchildren, with sciences, with events, which leave us exactlywhere they found us. The mathematics, ' tis complained, leavethe mind where they find it: so do all sciences; and so do allevents and actions. I find a man who has passed through all thesciences, the churl he was; and, through all the offices, learned,civil, and social, can detect the child. We are not the lessnecessitated to dedicate life to them. In fact, we may come toaccept it as the fixed rule and theory of our state of education,that God is a substance, and his method is illusion . Theeastern sages owned the goddess Yoganidra, the great illusory energy of Vishnu, by whom, as utter ignorance, the wholeworld is beguiled.Or shall I state it thus?-The astonishment of life is, theabsence of any appearance of reconciliation between thetheoryand practice of life. Reason, the prized reality, the Law, is apprehended, now and then, for a serene and profound moment,amidst the hubbub of cares and works which have no directbearing on it;-is then lost, for months or years, and again found, for an interval, to be lost again. If we compute it intime, we may, in fifty years, have half a dozen reasonable hours.But what are these cares and works the better? A method inthe world we do not see, but this parallelism of great and little,which never react on each other, nor discover the smallest tendency to converge. Experiences, fortunes, governings,readings, writings , are nothing to the purpose; as when a mancomes into the room, it does not appear whether he has beenMONTAIGNE; OR, THE SCEPTIC. 349fed on yams or buffalo, -he has contrived to get so much boneand fibre as he wants, out of rice or out of snow. So vast isthe disproportion between the sky of law and the pismire ofperformance under it, that, whether he is a man of worth or asot, is not so great a matter as we say. Shall I add, as onejuggle of this enchantment, the stunning non-intercourse law which makes co- operation impossible? The young spirit pantsto enter society. But all the ways of culture and greatnesslead to solitary imprisonment. He has been often baulked.He did not expect a sympathy with his thought from thevillage, but he went with it to the chosen and intelligent, andfound no entertainment for it, but mere misapprehension, distaste, and scoffing. Men are strangely mistimed and misapplied;and the excellence of each is an inflamed individualism whichseparates him more.There are these, and more than these diseases of thought,which our ordinary teachers do not attempt to remove. Now shall we, because a good nature inclines us to virtue's side, say,There are no doubts, and lie for the right? Is life to be ledin a brave or in a cowardly manner? and is not the satisfac- tion of the doubts essential to all manliness? Is the name ofvirtue to be a barrier to that which is virtue? Can you notbelieve that a man of earnest and burly habit may find smallgood in tea, essays, and catechism, and want a rougher instruc- tion, want men, labour, trade, farming, war, hunger, plenty,love, hatred, doubt, and terror, to make things plain to him;and has he not a right to insist on being convinced in his ownway? When he is convinced, he will be worth the pains.Belief consists in accepting the affirmations of the soul;unbelief, in denying them. Some minds are incapable ofscepticism. The doubts they profess to entertain are rather acivility or accommodation to the common discourse of their company. They may well give themselves leave to speculate,for they are secure of a return. Once admitted to the heavenof thought, they see no relapse into night, but infinite invitation on the other side. Heaven is within heaven, and sky over sky, and they are encompassed with divinities. Others thereare, to whom the heaven is brass, and it shuts down to thesurface of the earth. It is a question of temperament, or of more or less immersion in nature. The last class must needshave a reflex or parasite faith; not a sight of realities, but an instinctive reliance on the seers and believers of realities. Themanners and thoughts of believers astonish them, and convincethem that these have seen something which is hid from them- selves. But their sensual habit would fix the believer to hislast position, whilst he as inevitably advances; and presently the unbeliever, for love of belief, burns the believer.350 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.The Great believers are always reckoned infidels, impracticable,fantastic, atheistic, and really men of no account.spiritualist finds himself driven to express his faith by a series of scepticisms. Charitable souls come with their projects, and ask his co-operation. How can he hesitate? It is the rule ofmere comity and courtesy to agree where you can, and to turnyour sentence with something auspicious, and not freezing and sinister. But he is forced to say, ' O, these things will be asthey must be what can you do? These paritcular griefs andcrimes are the foliage and fruit of such trees as we see growing.It is vain to complain of the leaf or the berry: cut it off; it will bear another just as bad. You must begin your curelower down.' The generosities of the day prove an intractableelement for him. The people's questions are not his; theirmethods are not his; and, against all the dictates of good nature, he is driven to say, he has no pleasure in them.

Even the doctrines dear to the hope of man, of the divineProvidence, and of the immortality of the soul, his neighbourscannot put the statement so that he shall affirm it. But he denies out of more faith, and not less. He denies out ofhonesty. He had rather stand charged with the imbecility of scepticism, than with untruth. I believe, he says, in themoral design of the universe; it exists hospitably for the wealof souls; but your dogmas seem to me caricatures: why shouldI make believe them? Will any say, this is cold and infidel?The wise and magnanimous will not say so. They will exult in his far- sighted good-will, that can abandon to the adversaryall the ground of tradition and common belief, without losinga jot of strength. It sees to the end of all transgression.George Fox saw " that there was an ocean of darkness anddeath; but withal, an infinite ocean of light and love which flowed over that of darkness."The final solution in which scepticism is lost, is, in the moralsentiment, which never forfeits its supremacy. All moods maybe safely tried, and their weight allowed to all objections: the moral sentiment as easily outweighs them all, as any one.This is the drop which balances the sea. I play with the miscellany of facts, and take those superficial views which we call scepticism; but I know that they will presently appear to mein that order which makes scepticism impossible. A man ofthought must feel the thought that is parent of the universe:that the masses of nature do undulate and flow.This faith avails to the whole emergency of life and objects.The world is saturated with deity and with law. He is content with just and unjust, with sots and fools, with the triumph of folly and fraud. He can behold with serenity the yawning gulf between the ambition of man and his power of perform-MONTAIGNE; OR, THE SCEPTIC, 351ance, between the demand and supply of power, which makes the tragedy of all souls.Charles Fourier announced that " the attractions of man areproportioned to his destinies; " in other words, that everydesire predicts its own satisfaction. Yet, all experience exhibits the reverse of this; the incompetency of power is the universalgrief of young and ardent minds. They accuse the divineprovidence of a certain parsimony. It has shown the heavenand earth to every child, and filled him with a desire for thewhole; a desire raging, infinite; a hunger, as of space to befilled with planets; a cry of famine, as of devils for souls.Then for the satisfaction, -to each man is administered a singledrop, a bead of dew of vital power, per day, —a cup as large asspace, and one drop of the water of life in it. Each man wokein the morning, with an appetite that could eat the solar systemlike a cake; a spirit for action and passion without bounds;he could lay his hand on the morning star: he could try con- clusions with gravitation or chemistry; but, on the first motionto prove his strength, —hands, feet, senses, gave way, and would not serve him. He was an emperor deserted by hisstates, and left to whistle by himself, or thrust into a mob of emperors, all whistling: and still the sirens sang, " The attractions are proportioned to the destinies." In every house, in the heart of each maiden, and of each boy, in the soul of the soaring saint, this chasm is found, -between the largest promise of ideal power, and the shabby experience.The expansive nature of truth comes to our succour, elastic,not to be surrounded. Man helps himself by larger generali- zations. The lesson of life is practically to generalize; tobelieve what the years and the centuries say against the hours;to resist the usurpation of particulars; to penetrate to theircatholic sense. Things seem to say one thing, and say the reverse. The appearance is immoral; the result is moral.Things seem to tend downward, to justify despondency, to promote rogues, to defeat the just; and, by knaves, as bymartyrs, the just cause is carried forward. Although knaveswin in every political struggle, although society seems to be delivered over from the hands of one set of criminals into thehands of another set of criminals, as fast as the government ischanged, and the march of civilization is a train of felonies, yet,general ends are somehow answered. We see, now, events forcedon, which seem to retard or retrograde the civility of ages. Butthe world- spirit is a good swimmer, and storms and waves cannotdrown him. He snaps his finger at laws: and so, throughouthistory, heaven seems to affect low and poor means. Through the years and the centuries, through evil agents, through toysand atoms, a great and beneficent tendency irresistibly streams.352 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.Let a man learn to look for the permanent in the mutableand fleeting; let him learn to bear the disappearance of things he was wont to reverence, without losing his reverence; lethim learn that he is here, not to work, but to be worked upon;and that, though abyss open under abyss, and opinion displace opinion, all are at last contained in the Eternal Cause.-" If my bark sink, ' tis to another sea."GRV.-SHAKESPEARE; OR, THE POET.REAT men are more distinguished by range and extent,than by originality. If we require the originality which consists in weaving, like a spider, their web from their ownbowels; in finding clay, and making bricks, and building the house; no great men are original. Nor does valuable origina- lity consist in unlikeness to other men. The hero is in thepress of knights, and the thick of events; and, seeing whatmen want, and sharing their desire, he adds the needful lengthof sight and of arm, to come at the desired point. The greatest genius is the most indebted man. A poet is no rattlebrain ,saying what comes uppermost, and, because he says everything, saying, at last, something good; but a heart in unisonwith his time and country. There is nothing whimsical and fantastic in his production, but sweet and sad earnest, freightedwith the weightiest convictions, and pointed with the mostdetermined aim which any man or class knows of in his times.The Genius of our life is jealous of individuals, and will nothave any individual great, except through the general. There is no choice to genius. A great man does not wake up on somefine morning, and say, ' I am full of life, I will go to sea, and find an Antarctic continent: to-day I will square the circle: Iwill ransack botany, and find a newfood for man: I have anew architecture in my mind: I foresee a new mechanic power:'no, but he finds himself in the river of the thoughts and events,forced onward by the ideas and necessities of his contempo- raries. He stands where all the eyes of men look one way, andtheir hands all point in the direction in which he should go.The church has reared him amidst rites and pomps, and hecarries out the advice which her music gave him, and builds acathedral needed by her chants and processions. He finds awar raging: it educates him, by trumpet, in barracks, and he betters the instruction. He finds two counties groping tobring coal, or flour, or fish, from the place of production to theSHAKESPEARE; OR, THE POET. 353place of consumption, and he hits on a railroad. Every master has found his materials collected, and his power lay in hissympathy with his people, and in his love of the materials hewrought in. What an economy of power! and what a compensation for the shortness of life! All is done to his hand.The world has brought him thus far on his way. The human race has gone out before him, sunk the hills, filled the hollows,and bridged the rivers. Men, nations, poets, artisans, women,all have worked for him, and he enters into their labours.Choose any other thing, out of the line of tendency, out of thenational feeling and history, and he would have all to do for himself; his powers would be expended in the first prepara- tions. Great genial power, one would almost say, consists innot being original at all; in being altogether receptive; inletting the world do all, and suffering the spirit of the hour to pass unobstructed through the mind.Shakespeare's youth fell in a time when the English people were importunate for dramatic entertainments. The courttook offence easily at political allusions, and attempted tosuppress them. The Puritans, a growing and energetic party,and the religious among the Anglican church, would suppressthem. But the people wanted them. Inn-yards, houses without roofs, and extemporaneous enclosures at country fairs,were the ready theatres of strolling players. The people had tasted this new joy; and, as we could not hope to suppressnewspapers now, -no, not by the strongest party,-neitherthen could king, prelate, or puritan, alone or united, suppressan organ, which was ballad, epic, newspaper, caucus, lecture,punch, and library, at the same time. Probably king, prelate,and puritan, all found their own account in it. It had become,by all causes, a national interest, -by no means conspicuous,so that some great scholar would have thought of treating it in an English history, but not a whit less considerable, becauseit was cheap, and of no account, like a baker's shop. The bestproof of its vitality is the crowd of writers which suddenly broke into this field: Kyd, Marlowe, Greene, Jonson, Chapman,Dekker, Webster, Heywood, Middleton, Peele, Ford, Massinger,Beaumont, and Fletcher.The secure possession, by the stage, of the public mind, is ofthe first importance to the poet who works for it. He loses notime in idle experiments. Here is audience and expectation prepared. In the case of Shakespeare there is much more. Atthe time when he left Stratford, and went up to London, agreat body of stage-plays, of all dates and writers, existed inmanuscript, and were in turn produced on the boards. Hereis the Tale of Troy, which the audience will bear hearing some part of, every week; the Death of Julius Cæsar, andother VOL. I. 2 A354 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.stories out of Plutarch, which they never tire of; a shelf fullof English history, from the chronicles of Brut and Arthur,down to the royal Henries, which men hear eagerly; and astring of doleful tragedies, merry Italian tales, and Spanish voyages, which all the London prentices know. All the masshas been treated, with more or less skill, by every playwright,and the prompter has the soiled and tattered manuscripts. Itis now no longer possible to say who wrote them first. Theyhave been the property of the Theatre so long, and so manyrising geniuses have enlarged or altered them, inserting aspeech, or a whole scene, or adding a song, that no man canany longer claim copyright in this work of numbers. Happily,no man wishes to. They are not yet desired in that way. Wehave few readers, many spectators and hearers. They had best lie where they are.Shakespeare, in common with his comrades, esteemed themass of old plays, waste stock, in which any experiment could be freely tried. Hadthe prestige which hedges about a modern tragedy existed, nothing could have been done. The rude warm blood of the living England circulated in the play, as in street- ballads, and gave body which he wanted to his airy and majestic fancy. The poet needs a ground in popular tradition on which he may work, and which, again, may restrain his art within the due temperance. It holds him to the people,supplies a foundation for his edifice; and, in furnishing so much work done to his hand, leaves him at leisure, and in full strength for the audacities of his imagination. In short, the poet owes to his legend what sculpture owed to the temple.Sculpture in Egypt, and in Greece, grew up in subordination to architecture. It was the ornament of the temple wall: at first, a rude relief carved on pediments, then the relief became bolder, and a head or arm was projected from the wall, the groups being still arranged with reference to the building,which serves also as a frame to hold the figures; and when, at last, the greatest freedom of style and treatment was reached,the prevailing genius of architecture still enforced a certain calmness and continence in the statue. As soon as the statuewas begun for itself, and with no reference to the temple or palace, the art began to decline: freak, extravagance, and exhibition, took the place of the old temperance. This balance- wheel, which the sculptor found in architecture, the perilous irritability of poetic talent found in the accumulated dramatic materials to which the people were already wonted, and which had a certain excellence which no single genius, however extra- ordinary, could hope to create.In point of fact, it appears that Shakespeare did owe debts inall directions, and was able to use whatever he found; and theSHAKESPEARE; OR, THE POET. 355amount of indebtedness may be inferred from Malone's laborious computations in regard to the First, Second, and Third parts of Henry VI. , in which, "out of 6043 lines, 1771 werewritten by some author preceding Shakespeare; 2373 by him, on the foundation laid by his predecessors; and 1899 wereentirely his own." And the proceeding investigation hardly leaves a single drama of his absolute invention . Malone'ssentence is an important piece of external history. In HenryVIII. , I think I see plainly the cropping out of the originalrock on which his own finer stratum was laid. The first play was written by a superior, thoughtful man, with a vicious ear.I can mark his lines, and know well their cadence.Wolsey's soliloquy, and the following scene with Cromwell,where, instead of the metre of Shakespeare, whose secret is,that the thought constructs the tune, so that reading for thesense will best bring out the rhythm,-here the lines are constructed on a given tune, and the verse has even a trace ofpulpit eloquence. But the play contains, through all itslength, unmistakable traits of Shakespeare's hand, and some passages, as the account of the coronation, are like autographs.What is odd, the compliment to Queen Elizabeth is in the badrhythm.SeeShakespeare knew that tradition supplies a better fable than any invention can. If he lost any credit of design, he augmented his resources; and, at that day, our petulant demandfor originality was not so much pressed. There was no litera- ture for the million. The universal reading, the cheap press,were unknown. A great poet, who appears in illiterate times,absorbs into his sphere all the light which is anywhere radiating. Every intellectual jewel, every flower of sentiment, it is his fine office to bring to his people; and he comes to value his memory equally with his invention. He is therefore littlesolicitous whence his thoughts have been derived; whetherthrough translation, whether through tradition, whether bytravel in distant countries, whether by inspiration; from what- ever source, they are equally welcome to his uncritical audience.Nay, he borrows very near home. Other men say wise things as well as he; only they say a good many foolish things, and donot know when they have spoken wisely. He knows the sparkle of the true stone, and puts it in high place, wherever he findsit. Such is the happy position of Homer, perhaps; of Chaucer,of Saadi. They felt that all wit was their wit. And they are librarians and historiographers, as well as poets. Eachromancer was heir and dispenser of all the hundred tales of the world, -·"Presenting Thebes' and Pelops ' line And the tale of Troy divine. "356 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.The influence of Chaucer is conspicuous in all our earlyliterature; and, more recently, not only Pope and Dryden have been beholden to him, but, in the whole society of Englishwriters, a large unacknowledged debt is easily traced. One is charmed with the opulence which feeds so many pensioners.But Chaucer is a huge borrower. Chaucer, it seems, drew continually, through Lydgate and Caxton, from Guido di Colonna, whose Latin romance of the Trojan war was in turn a compilation from Dares Phrygius, Ovid, and Statius. Then Petrarch, Boccaccio, and the Provençal poets are his benefactors: the Romaunt of the Rose is only judicious translation from William of Lorris and John of Meun: Troilus andCreseide, from Lollius of Urbino: The co*ck and the Fox, from the Lais of Marie: The House of Fame, from the French orItalian: and poor Gower he uses as if he were only a brick-kiln or stone-quarry, out of which to build his house. He steals by this apology-that what he takes has no worth where he finds it, and the greatest where he leaves it. It has cometo be practically a sort of rule in literature, that a man,having once shown himself capable of original writing, is entitled thenceforth to steal from the writings of others at discretion. Thought is the property of him who can entertain it; and of him who can adequately place it. Acertain awkwardness marks the use of borrowed thoughts;but, as soon as we have learned what to do with them, they become our own.Thus, all originality is relative. Every thinker is retro- spective. The learned member of the legislature, at Westminster or at Washington, speaks and votes for thousands.Show us the constituency, and the now invisible channels by which the senator is made aware of their wishes, the crowd ofpractical and knowing men, who, by correspondence or con- versation, are feeding him with evidence, anecdotes, and estimates, and it will bereave his fine attitude and resistance ofsomething of their impressiveness. As Sir Robert Peel andMr. Webster vote, so Locke and Rousseau think for thousands;and so there were fountains all around Homer, Menu, Saadi,or Milton, from which they drew; friends, lovers, books,traditions, proverbs-all perished—which, if seen, would go to reduce the wonder. Did the bard speak with authority? Didhe feel himself overmatched by any companion? The appeal is to the consciousness of the writer. Is there at last in hisbreast a Delphi whereof to ask concerning any thought orthing, whether it be verily so, yea or nay? and to have answer,and to rely on that? All the debts which such a man could contract to other wit, would never disturb his consciousness oforiginality: for the ministrations of books, and of other minds,SHAKESPEARE; OR, THE POET. 357are a whiff of smoke to that most private reality with which he has conversed.It is easy to see that what is best written or done by genius,in the world, was no man's work, but came by wide sociallabour, when a thousand wrought like one, sharing the sameimpulse. Our English Bible is a wonderful specimen of thestrength and music of the English language. But it was not made by one man, or at one time; but centuries and churchesbrought it to perfection. There never was a time when therewas not some translation existing. The Liturgy, admired forits energy and pathos, is an anthology of the piety of ages and nations, a translation of the prayers and forms of the Catholic church- these collected, too, in long periods, from the prayersand meditations of every saint and sacred writer all over theworld. Grotius makes the like remark in respect to the Lord'sPrayer, that the single clauses of which it is composed were already in use, in the time of Christ, in the rabbinical forms.He picked out the grains of gold. The nervous language of the Common Law, the impressive forms of our courts, and theprecision and substantial truth of the legal distinctions, arethe contribution of all the sharp- sighted, strong- minded men who have lived in the countries where these laws govern. Thetranslation of Plutarch gets its excellence by being translation on translation. There never was a time when there was none.All the truly idiomatic and national phrases are kept, and allothers successively picked out, and thrown away. Something like the same process had gone on, long before, with the originals of these books. The world takes liberties with worldbooks. Vedas, Æsop's Fables, Pilpay, Arabian Nights, Cid,Iliad, Robin Hood, Scottish Minstrelsy, are not the work of single men. In the composition of such works, the time thinks,the market thinks, the mason, the carpenter, the merchant,the farmer, the fop, all think for us. Every book supplies itstime with one good word; every municipal law, every trade,every folly of the day, and the generic catholic genius who isnot afraid or ashamed to owe his originality to the originality of all, stands with the next age as the recorder and embodi- ment of his own.We have to thank the researches of antiquaries, and theShakespeare Society, for ascertaining the steps of the English drama, from the Mysteries celebrated in churches and by,churchmen, and the final detachment from the church, andthe completion of secular plays, from Ferrex and Porrex, andGammer Gurton's Needle, down to the possession of the stageby the very pieces which Shakespeare altered, remodelled, andfinally made his own. Elated with success, and piqued by the growing interest of the problem, they have left no book- stall358 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.unsearched, no chest in a garret unopened, no file of old yellow accounts to decompose in damp and worms, so , keen was thehope to discover whether the boy Shakespeare poached or not,whether he held horses at the theatre door, whether he kept school, and why he left in his will only his second-best bed to Ann Hathaway, his wife.There is somewhat touching in the madness with which thepassing age mischooses the object on which all candles shine,and all eyes are turned; the care with which it registers every trifle touching Queen Elizabeth, and King James, and theEssexes, Leicesters, Burleighs, and Buckinghams; and letspass without a single valuable note the founder of anotherdynasty, which alone will cause the Tudor dynasty to be remembered the man who carries the Saxon race in him bythe inspiration which feeds him, and on whose thoughts the foremost people of the world are now for some ages to be nourished, and minds to receive this and not another bias. Apopular player-nobody suspected he was the poet of the human race; and the secret was kept as faithfully from poetsand intellectual men, as from courtiers and frivolous people.Bacon, who took the inventory of the human understanding for his times, never mentioned his name. Ben Jonson, thoughwe have strained his few words of regard and panegyric, hadno suspicion of the elastic fame whose first vibrations he was attempting. He no doubt thought the praise he has concededto him generous, and esteemed himself, out of all question, the better poet of the two.If it need wit to know wit, according to the proverb, Shakespeare's time should be capable of recognizing it. Sir Henry Wottonwas born four years after Shakespeare, and died twentythree years after him; and I find , among his correspondentsand acquaintances, the following persons: Theodore Beza,Isaac Casaubon, Sir Philip Sidney, Earl of Essex, Lord Bacon,Sir Walter Raleigh, John Milton, Sir Henry Vane, Izaak Walton, Dr. Donne, Abraham Cowley, Bellarmine, CharlesCotton, John Pym, John Hales, Kepler, Vieta, AlbericusGentilis, Paul Sarpi, Arminius; with all of whom exists sometoken of his having communicated, without enumerating many others, whom doubtless he saw-Shakespeare, Spenser, Jonson,Beaumont, Massinger, two Herberts, Marlowe, Chapman, and the rest. Since the constellation of great men who appearedin Greece in the time of Pericles, there was never any suchsociety; yet their genius failed them to find out the best head in the universe. Our poet's mask was impenetrable. You cannot see the mountain near. It took a century to make itsuspected; and not until two centuries had passed, after hisdeath, did any criticism which we think adequate begin toSHAKESPEARE; OR, THE POET. 359appear. It was not possible to write the history of Shakespeare till now; for he is the father of German literature: it was onthe introduction of Shakespeare into German, by Lessing, andthe translation of his works by Wieland and Schlegel, that the rapid burst of German literature was most intimately connected. It was not until the nineteenth century, whosespeculative genius is a sort of living Hamlet, that the tragedy of Hamlet could find such wondering readers. Now, literature,philosophy, and thought are Shakespearized. His mind is thehorizon beyond which, at present, we do not see. Our ears areeducated to music by his rhythm. Coleridge and Goethe arethe only critics who have expressed our convictions with any adequate fidelity: but there is in all cultivated minds a silentappreciation of his superlative power and beauty, which, like Christianity, qualifies the period.The Shakespeare Society have inquired in all directions,advertised the missing facts, offered money for any informationthat will lead to proof; and with what result? Beside someimportant illustration of the history of the English stage, towhich I have adverted, they have gleaned a few facts touchingthe property, and dealings in regard to property, of the poet.It appears that, from year to year, he owned a larger share inthe Blackfriars Theatre: its wardrobe and other appurtenances were his; that he bought an estate in his native village,with his earnings, as writer and shareholder; that he lived inthe best house in Stratford; was intrusted by his neighbours with their commissions in London, as of borrowing money, andthe like; that he was a veritable farmer. About the time whenhe was writing Macbeth, he sues Philip Rogers, in the boroughcourt of Stratford, for thirty-five shillings, ten pence, for corn delivered to him at different times; and, in all respects, appearsas a good husband, with no reputation for eccentricity or excess. He was a good-natured sort of man, an actor andshareholder in the theatre, not in any striking manner distinguished from other actors and managers. I admit theimportance of this information. It was well worth the pains that have been taken to procure it.But whatever scraps of information concerning his conditionthese researches mayhave rescued, they can shed no light upon that infinite invention which is the concealed magnet of his attraction for us. We are very clumsy writers of history. We tell the chronicle of parentage, birth, birthplace,schooling, schoolmates, earning of money, marriage, publi cation of books, celebrity, death; and when we have come toan end of this gossip, no ray of relation appears between itand the goddess-born; and it seems as if, had we dipped atrandom into the " Modern Plutarch, " and read any other life360 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.there, it would have fitted the poems as well. It is the essenceof poetry to spring, like the rainbow daughter of Wonder,from the invisible, to abolish the past, and refuse all history.Malone, Warburton, Dyce, and Collier have wasted their oil.The famed theatres, Covent Garden, Drury Lane, the Park,and Tremont, have vainly assisted. Betterton, Garrick,Kemble, Kean, and Macready dedicate their lives to this genius; him they crown, elucidate, obey, and express. Thegenius knows them not. The recitation begins; one golden word leaps out immortal from all this painted pedantry, andsweetly torments us with invitations to its own inaccessible homes. I remember, I went once to see the Hamlet of afamed performer, the pride of the English stage; and all Ithen heard, and all I now remember, of the tragedian, wasthat in which the tragedian had no part; simply, Hamlet'squestion to the ghost-"What may this mean,That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel Revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon?"That imagination which dilates the closet he writes in to theworld's dimension, crowds it with agents in rank and order, asquickly reduces the big reality to be the glimpses of the moon.These tricks of his magic spoil for us the illusions of thegreen-room. Can any biography shed light on the localitiesinto which the Midsummer Night's Dream admits me? DidShakespeare confide to any notary or parish recorder, sacristanor surrogate, in Stratford, the genesis of that delicate creation?The forest of Arden, the nimble air of Scone Castle, the moonlight of Portia's villa, " the antres vast and desarts idle, " ofOthello's captivity-where is the third cousin, or grandnephew, the chancellor's file of accounts, or private letter, that has kept one word of those transcendent secrets? In fine, inthis drama, as in all great works of art-in the Cyclopæanarchitecture of Egypt and India; in the Phidian sculpture;the Gothic minsters; the Italian painting; the Ballads ofSpain and Scotland-the Genius draws up the ladder afterhim, when the creative age goes up to heaven, and gives wayto a new, which sees the works, and asks in vain for a history.Shakespeare is the onlybiographer of Shakespeare; and evenhe can tell nothing, except to the Shakespeare in us; that is , to our most apprehensive and sympathetic hour. He cannot stepfrom off his tripod, and give us anecdotes of his inspirations.Read the antique documents extricated, analyzed, and com- pared, by the assiduous Dyce and Collier; and now read oneof those skyey sentences-aerolites-which seem to have fallenout of heaven, and which, not your experience, but the manSHAKESPEARE; OR, THE POET. 361within the breast, has accepted as words of fate; and tell meif they match; if the former account in any manner for the latter; or, which gives the most historical insight into the man.Hence, though our external history is so meagre, yet, with Shakespeare for biographer, instead of Aubrey and Rowe, wehave really the information which is material, that which describes character and fortune, that which, if we were aboutto meet the man and deal with him, would most import us toknow. We have his recorded convictions on those questions which knock for answer at every heart-on life and death, onlove, on wealth and poverty, on the prizes of life, and the wayswhereby we come at them; on the characters of men, and the influences, occult and open, which affect their fortunes; andon those mysterious and demoniacal powers which defy ourscience, and which yet interweave their malice and their gift in our brightest hours. Who ever read the volume of theSonnets, without finding that the poet had there revealed,under masks that are no masks to the intelligent, the lore offriendship and of love; the confusion of sentiments in the most susceptible, and, at the same time, the most intellectual of men? What trait of his private mind has he hidden in hisdramas? One can discern, in his ample pictures of thegentleman and the king, what forms and humanities pleased him; his delight in troops of friends, in large hospitality, incheerful giving. Let Timon, let Warwick, let Antonio themerchant, answer for his great heart. So far from Shakespeare'sbeing the least known, he is the one person, in all modernhistory, known to us. What point of morals, of manners, of economy, of philosophy, of religion, of taste, of the conduct oflife, has he not settled? What mystery has he not signified his knowledge of? What office, or function, or district ofman's work, has he not remembered? What king has he nottaught state, as Talma taught Napoleon? What maiden hasnot found him finer than her delicacy? What lover has henot outloved? What sage has he not outseen? What gentle- man has he not instructed in the rudeness of his behaviour?Some able and appreciating critics think no criticism onShakespeare valuable, that does not rest purely on the dramaticmerit; that he is falsely judged as poet and philosopher. Ithink as highly as these critics of his dramatic merit, but stillthink it secondary. He was a full man, who liked to talk; abrain exhaling thoughts and images, which, seeking vent,found the drama next at hand. Had he been less, we shouldhave had to consider how well he filled his place, how good adramatist he was-and he is the best in the world. But itturns out, that what he has to say is of that weight, as to withdraw some attention from the vehicle; and he is like362 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.some saint whose history is to be rendered into all languages,into verse and prose, into songs and pictures, and cut up into proverbs; so that the occasion which gave the saint's meaningthe form of a conversation, or of a prayer, or of a code of laws,is immaterial, compared with the universality of its application. So it fares with the wise Shakespeare and his book of life.He wrote the airs for all our modern music: he wrote the textof modern life; the text of manners: he drew the man ofEngland and Europe; the father of the man in America: hedrew the man, and described the day, and what is done in it:he read the hearts of men and women, their probity, and theirsecond thought, and wiles; the wiles of innocence, and thetransitions by which virtues and vices slide into their contraries: he could divide the mother's part from the father'spart in the face of the child, or draw the fine demarcations offreedom and of fate: he knew the laws of repression whichmake the police of nature: and all the sweets and all theterrors of human lot lay in his mind as truly but as softly asthe landscape lies on the eye. And the importance of thiswisdom of life sinks the form, as of Drama or Epic, out ofnotice. "Tis like making a question concerning the paper onwhich a king's message is written.Shakespeare is as much out of the category of eminentauthors, as he is out of the crowd. He is inconceivably wise;the others, conceivably. A good reader can, in a sort, nestle into Plato's brain, and think from thence; but not into Shakespeare's. We are still out of doors. For executivefaculty, for creation, Shakespeare is unique. No man canimagine it better. He was the farthest reach of subtletycompatible with an individual self-the subtilest of authors,and only just within the possibility of authorship. With this wisdom of life, is the equal endowment of imagina- tive and of lyric power. He clothed the creatures of hislegend with form and sentiments, as if they were people who had lived under his roof; and few real men have left such distinct characters as these fictions. And they spoke inlanguage as sweet as it was fit. Yet his talents never seducedhim into an ostentation, nor did he harp on one string. An omnipresent humanity co- ordinates all his faculties. Give aman of talents a story to tell, and his partiality will presently appear. He has certain observations, opinions, topics, whichhave some accidental prominence, and which he disposes all to exhibit. He crams this part, and starves that other part,consulting not the fitness of the thing, but his fitness andstrength. But Shakespeare has no peculiarity, no importunate topic; but all is duly given; no veins, no curiosities: no cowpainter, no bird-fancier, no mannerist is he: he has no dis-SHAKESPEARE; OR, THE POET. 363coverable egotism: the great he tells greatly; the small,subordinately. He is wise without emphasis or assertion; he is strong, as nature is strong, who lifts the land into mountainslopes without effort, and by the same rule as she floats abubble in the air, and likes as well to do the one as the other.This makes that equality of power in farce, tragedy, narrative,and love-songs; a merit so incessant, that each reader isincredulous of the perception of other readers.This power of expression, or of transferring the inmost truth of things into music and verse, makes him the type of the poet, and has added a new problem to metaphysics. This is that which throws him into natural history, as a main production of the globe, and as announcing new eras and ameliorations. Things were mirrored in his poetry without loss or blur: he could paint the fine with precision, the great with compass: the tragic and the comic indifferently, and without any distortion or favour. He carried his powerful execution into minute details, to a hair point; finishes an eye- lash or a dimple as firmly as he draws a mountain; and yet these, like nature's, will bear the scrutiny of the solar micro- scope.In short, he is the chief example to prove that more or less of production, more or fewer pictures, is a thing indifferent.He had the power to make one picture. Daguerre learnedhowto let one flower etch its image on his plate of iodine; andthen proceeds at leisure to etch a million . There are alwaysobjects; but there was never representation. Here is perfect representation, at last; and now let the world of figures sitfor their portraits. No recipe can be given for the makingof a Shakespeare; but the possibility of the translation of things into song is demonstrated.His lyric power lies in the genius of the piece. The sonnets,though their excellence is lost in the splendour of the dramas,are as inimitable as they: and it is not a merit of lines, but atotal merit of the piece; like the tone of voice of some incomparable person, so is this a speech of poetic beings, and anyclause as unproducible now as a whole poem.Though the speeches in the plays, and single lines, have abeauty which tempts the ear to pause on them for theireuphuism, yet the sentence is so loaded with meaning, and so linked with its foregoers and followers, that the logician is satisfied. His means are as admirable as his ends: every subordinate invention, by which he helps himself to connect some irreconcilable opposites, is a poem too. He is not reduced to dismount and walk, because his horses are running off with him in some distant direction: he always rides.The finest poetry was first experience: but the thought has364 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.suffered a transformation since it was an experience. Cultivatedmen often attain a good degree of skill in writing verses; butit is easy to read, through their poems, their personal history:any one acquainted with parties can name every figure: this is Andrew, and that is Rachel. The sense thus remains prosaic.It is a caterpillar with wings, and not yet a butterfly. In thepoet's mind, the fact has gone quite over into the new elementof thought, and has lost all that is exuvial. This generosity abides with Shakespeare. We say, from the truth and closeness of his pictures, that he knows the lesson by heart. Yetthere is not a trace of egotism.One more royal trait properly belongs to the poet. I mean his cheerfulness, without which no man can be a poet-forbeauty is his aim. He loves virtue, not for its obligation, butfor its grace: he delights in the world, in man, in woman, forthe lovely light that sparkles from them. Beauty, the spiritof joy and hilarity, he sheds over the universe.. Epicurusrelates, that poetry hath such charms that a lover mightforsake his mistress to partake of them. And the true bards have been noted for their firm and cheerful temper. Homerlies in sunshine; Chaucer is glad and erect; and Saadi says,"It was rumoured abroad that I was penitent; but what had Ito do with repentance?" Not less sovereign and cheerfulmuch more sovereign and cheerful, is the tone of Shakespeare.His name suggests joy and emancipation to the heart of men.If he should appear in any company of human souls, who would not march in his troop? He touches nothing that doesnot borrow health and longevity from his festal style.And now, how stands the account of man with this bard andbenefactor, when in solitude, shutting our ears to the reverbe- rations of his fame, we seek to strike the balance? Solitudehas austere lessons; it can teach us to spare both heroes and poets; and it weighs Shakespeare also, and finds him to sharethe halfness and imperfection of humanity.Shakespeare, Homer, Dante, Chaucer, saw the splendour ofmeaning that plays over the visible world; knew that a tree had another use than for apples, and corn another than formeal, and the ball of the earth, than for tillage and roads: thatthese things bore a second and finer harvest to the mind, being emblems of its thoughts, and conveying in all their naturalhistory a certain mute commentary on human life. Shakespeare employed them as colours to compose his picture. He rested in their beauty; and never took the step which seemedinevitable to such genius, namely, to explore the virtue whichresides in these symbols, and imparts this power-what is that which they themselves say? He converted the elements, whichSHAKESPEARE; OR, THE POET. 365waited on his command, into entertainments. He was masterof the revels to mankind. Is it not as if one should have,through majestic powers of science, the comets given into hishand, or the planets and their moons, and should draw themfrom their orbits to glare with the municipal fireworks on aholiday night, and advertise in all towns, " very superiorpyrotechny this evening!" Are the agents of nature, and thepower to understand them, worth no more than a street serenade, or the breath of a cigar? One remembers again thetrumpet-text in the Koran-" The heavens and the earth, andall that is between them, think ye we have created them injest?" As long as the question is of talent and mental power,the world of men has not his equal to show. But when thequestion is to life, and its materials, and its auxiliaries, howdoes he profit me? What does it signify? It is but a TwelfthNight, or Midsummer Night's Dream, or a Winter Evening'sTale: what signifies another picture more or less?Egyptian verdict of the Shakespeare Societies comes to mind,that he was a jovial actor and manager. I cannot marry this fact to his verse. Other admirable men have led lives in somesort of keeping with their thought; but this man, in widecontrast. Had he been less, had he reached only the commonmeasure of great authors, of Bacon, Milton, Tasso, Cervantes,we might leave the fact in the twilight of human fate: but, thatthis man of men, he who gave to the science of mind a new and larger subject than had ever existed, and planted the standard of humanity some furlongs forward into Chaos-that he shouldnot be wise for himself-it must even go into the world'shistory, that the best poet led an obscure and profane life,using his genius for the public amusem*nt.TheWell, other men, priest and prophet, Israelite, German, andSwede, beheld the same objects: they also saw through them that which was contained. And to what purpose? Thebeauty straightway vanished; they read commandments, allexcluding mountainous duty; an obligation, a sadness, as ofpiled mountains, fell on them, and life became ghastly, joyless ,a pilgrim's progress, a probation, beleaguered round withdoleful histories of Adam's fall and curse, behind us; withdoomsdays and purgatorial and penal fires before us; and the heart of the seer and the heart of the listener sank in them.It must be conceded that these are half-views of half-men.The world still wants its poet- priest, a reconciler, who shallnot trifle with Shakespeare the player, nor shall grope ingraves with Swedenborg the mourner; but who shall see, speak,and act, with equal inspiration. For knowledge will brightenthe sunshine; right is more beautiful than private affection;and love is compatible with universal wisdom.366 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.VI.-NAPOLEON; OR, THE MAN OF THE WORLD.MONG the eminent persons of the nineteenth century,A Bonaparte is far the best known, andthe most powerful;and owes his predominance to the fidelity with which he expresses the tone of thought and belief, the aims of themasses of active and cultivated men. It is Swedenborg'stheory, that every organ is made up of hom*ogeneous particles;or, as it is sometimes expressed, every whole is made ofsimilars; that is, the lungs are composed of infinitely smalllungs; the liver, of infinitely small livers; the kidney, of littlekidneys, &c. Following this analogy, if any man is found to carry with him the power and affections of vast numbers, ifNapoleon is France, if Napoleon is Europe, it is because thepeople whom he sways are little Napoleons.In our society, there is a standing antagonism between theconservative and the democratic classes; between those whohave made their fortunes, and the young and the poor whohave fortunes to make; between the interests of dead labour— that is, the labour of hands long ago still in the grave, whichlabour is now entombed in money stocks or in land andbuildings owned by idle capitalists-and the interests of livinglabour, which seeks to possess itself of land, and buildings, andmoney stocks. The first class is timid, selfish, illiberal, hatinginnovation, and continually losing numbers by death. Thesecond class is selfish also, encroaching, bold, self-relying,always outnumbering the other, and recruiting its numbersevery hour by births. It desires to keep open every avenue tothe competition of all, and to multiply avenues;-the class ofbusiness men in America, in England, in France, and throughout Europe; the class of industry and skill. Napoleon is itsrepresentative. The instinct of active, brave, able men, throughout the middle class everywhere, has pointed out Napoleon asthe incarnate Democrat. He had their virtues and their vices;above all, he had their spirit or aim. That tendency is material,pointing at a sensual success, and employing the richest andmost various means to that end; conversant with mechanicalpowers, highly intellectual, widely and accurately learned andskilful, but subordinating all intellectual and spiritual forces into means to a material success . To be the rich man, is theend. God has granted, " says the Koran, “ to every people aprophet in its own tongue." Paris, and London, and NewYork, the spirit of commerce, of money, and material power,66NAPOLEON; OR, THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 367were also to have their prophet; and Bonaparte was qualified and sent.Every one of the million readers of anecdotes, or memoirs,or lives of Napoleon, delights in the page, because he studiesin it his own history. Napoleon is thoroughly modern, and, atthe highest point of his fortunes, has the very spirit of the newspapers. He is no saint, -to use his own word, " no capuchin," and he is no hero, in the high sense. The man inthe street finds in him the qualities and powers of other menin the street. He finds him, like himself, by birth a citizen,who, by very intelligible merits, arrived at such a commandingposition, that he could indulge all those tastes which the common man possesses, but is obliged to conceal and deny: goodsociety, good books, fast travelling, dress, dinners, servants without number, personal weight, the execution of his ideas,the standing in the attitude of a benefactor to all personsabout him, the refined enjoyments of pictures, statues, music,palaces, and conventional honours,-precisely what is agreeableto the heart of every man in the nineteenth century,-this powerful man possessed.It is true that a man of Napoleon's truth of adaptation tothe mind of the masses around him, becomes not merely representative, but actually a monopolizer and usurper of other minds. Thus Mirabeau plagiarized every good thought, everygood word, that was spoken in France. Dumont relates, thathe sat in the gallery of the Convention, and heard Mirabeaumake a speech. It struck Dumont that he could fit it with aperoration, which he wrote in pencil immediately, and showed it to Lord Elgin, who sat by him. Lord Elgin approved it,and Dumont, in the evening, showed it to Mirabeau. Mirabeauread it, pronounced it admirable, and declared he would incorporate it into his harangue, to- morrow, to the Assembly. “ Itis impossible, " said Dumont, " as, unfortunately, I have shownit to Lord Elgin." "If you have shown it to Lord Elgin,and to fifty persons beside, I shall still speak it to-morrow " and he did speak it, with much effect, at the nextday's session. For Mirabeau, with his overpowering personality, felt that these things, which his presence inspired,were as much his own, as if he had said them, and that hisadoption of them gave themtheir weight. Much more absoluteand centralizing was the successor to Mirabeau's popularity,and to much more than his predominance in France. Indeed,a man of Napoleon's stamp almost ceases to have a privatespeech and opinion. He is so largely receptive, and is so placed, that he comes to be a bureau for all the intelligence,wit, and power, of the age and country. He gains the battle;he makes the code; he makes the system of weights and368 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.measures; he levels the Alps; he builds the road. All dis- tinguished engineers, savans, statists, report to him: so, like- wise, do all good heads in every kind: he adopts the best measures, sets his stamp on them, and not these alone, but on every happy and memorable expression. Every sentence spoken by Napoleon, and every line of his writing, deserves reading, as it is the sense of France.Bonaparte was the idol of common men, because he had intranscendent degree the qualities and powers of common men.There is a certain satisfaction in coming down to the lowest ground of politics, for we get rid of cant and hypocrisy. Bonaparte wrought, in common with that great class he represented,for power and wealth, -but Bonaparte, specially, without any scruple as to the means. All the sentiments which embarrassmen's pursuit of these objects, he set aside. The sentiments were for women and children. Fontanes, in 1804, expressed Napoleon's own sense, when, in behalf of the Senate, he ad- dressed him, -“ Sire, the desire of perfection is the worst disease that ever afflicted the human mind." The advocates of liberty, and of progress, are ideologists; ”-a word ofcontempt often in his mouth; —“ Necker is an ideologist:""Lafayette is an ideologist."66An Italian proverb, too well known, declares that, " if youwould succeed, you must not be too good." It is an advantage,within certain limits, to have renounced the dominion of thesentiments of piety, gratitude, and generosity; since, what was an impassable bar to us, and still is to others, becomes a convenient weapon for our purposes; just as the river which was a for- midable barrier, winter transforms into the smoothest of roads.Napoleon renounced, once for all, sentiments and affections,and would help himself with his hands and his head. With him is no miracle, and no magic. He is a worker in brass, in iron, in wood, in earth, in roads, in buildings, in money, and in troops,and a very consistent and wise master-workman. He is never weak and literary, but acts with the solidity and the precision of natural agents. He has not lost his native sense and sympathy with things. Men give way before such a man, as before natural events. To be sure, there are men enough who are immersedin things, as farmers, smiths, sailors, and mechanics generally;and we know how real and solid such men appear in the presence of scholars and grammarians: but these men ordi- narily lack the power of arrangement, and are like hands with- out a head. But Bonaparte superadded to this mineral andanimal force, insight and generalization, so that men saw in him combined the natural and the intellectual power, as if the sea and land had taken flesh and begun to cipher. Therefore the land and sea seem to presuppose him. He came unto hisNAPOLEON; OR, THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 369own, and they received him. This ciphering operative knows what he is working with, and what is the product. He knewthe properties of gold and iron, of wheels and ships, of troops and diplomatists, and required that each should do after its kind.The art of war was the game in which he exerted his arith- metic. It consisted, according to him, in having always moreforces than the enemy, on the point where the enemy is attacked, or where he attacks: and his whole talent is strainedby endless manœuvre and evolution, to march always on the enemy at an angle, and destroy his forces in detail. It isobvious that a very small force, skilfully and rapidly manœuvring, so as always to bring two men against one at the pointof engagement, will be an overmatch for a much larger body of men.The times, his constitution, and his early circ*mstances,combined to develop this pattern democrat. He had thevirtues of his class, and the conditions for their activity.That common sense, which no sooner respects any end, than it finds the means to effect it; the delight in the use of means;in the choice, simplification, and combining of means; thedirectness and thoroughness of his work; the prudence with which all was seen, and the energy with which all was done,make him the natural organ and head of what I may almost call, from its extent, the modern party.66 66Nature must have far the greatest share in every success , andso in his. Such a man was wanted, and such a man was born;a man of stone and iron, capable of sitting on horseback sixteen or seventeen hours, of going many days together without rest or food, except by snatches, and with the speed andspring of a tiger in action; a man not embarrassed by any scruples; compact, instant, selfish, prudent, and of a percep- tion which did not suffer itself to be baulked or misled by anypretences of others, or any superstition, or any heat or haste of his own. My hand of iron, " he said, was not at theextremity of my arm, it was immediately connected with my head." He respected the power of nature and fortune, and ascribed to it his superiority, instead of valuing himself, like inferior men, on his opinionativeness, and waging war withnature. His favourite rhetoric lay in allusion to his star; andhe pleased himself, as well as the people, when he styled him- self the " Child of Destiny." "They charge me, " he said,"with the commission of great crimes: men of my stamp do not commit crimes. Nothing has been more simple than my elevation; 'tis in vain to ascribe it to intrigue or crime: it wasowing to the peculiarity of the times, and to my reputation of having fought well against the enemies of my country. I have always marched with the opinion of great masses, and with VOL. I. 2 B370 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.66events. Of what use, then, would crimes be to me? " Againhe said, speaking of his son, " My son cannot replace me; Icould not replace myself. I amthe creature of circ*mstances. "He had a directness of action never before combined with somuch comprehension. He is a realist, terrific to all talkers, andconfused truth- obscuring persons. He sees where the matterhinges, throws himself on the precise point of resistance, andslights all other considerations. He is strong in the right manner, namely, by insight. He never blundered into victory,but won his battles in his head, before he won them on thefield. His principal means are in himself. He asks counselof no other. In 1796, he writes to the Directory; " I have con- ducted the campaign without consulting any one. I shouldhave done no good, if I had been under the necessity of conforming to the notions of another person. I have gained some advantages over superior forces, and when totally destitute ofeverything, because, in the persuasion that your confidencewas reposed in me, my actions were as prompt as mythoughts."History is full, down to this day, of the imbecility of kings and governors. They are a class of persons much to be pitied,for they know not what they should do. The weavers strikefor bread; and the king and his ministers, not knowing whatto do, meet them with bayonets. But Napoleon understood his business. Here was a man who, in each moment and emergency, knew what to do next. It is an immense comfortand refreshment to the spirits, not only of kings, but ofcitizens. Few men have any next; they live from hand tomouth, without plan, and are ever at the end of their line, and,after each action, wait for an impulse from abroad. Napoleon had been the first man of the world, if his ends had beenpurely public. As he is, he inspires confidence and vigour bythe extraordinary unity of his action. He is firm, sure, selfdenying, self- postponing, sacrificing everything to his aim, -money, troops, generals, and his own safety also, to his aim;not misled, like common adventurers, by the splendour of his own means. "Incidents ought not to govern policy, " he said,"but policy, incidents." "To be hurried away by every event,is to have no political system at all. " His victories were only somany doors, and he never for a moment lost sight of his way onward, in the dazzle and uproar of the present circ*mstance.He knew what to do, and he flew to his mark. He would shortena straight line to come at his object. Horrible anecdotes may,no doubt, be collected from his history, of the price at which hebought his successes; but he must not therefore be set down ascruel; but only as one who knew no impediment to his will; not bloodthirsty, not cruel, -but woe to what thing or personstood in his way! Not bloodthirsty, but not sparing of blood-NAPOLEON; OR, THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 37166 and pitiless. He saw only the object: the obstacle must give way. Sire, General Clarke cannot combine with GeneralJunot, for the dreadful fire of the Austrian battery."-" Lethim carry the battery. " " Sire, every regiment that approachesthe heavy artillery is sacrificed: Sire, what orders?"—" For- ward, forward!" Seruzier, a colonel of artillery, gives in hisMilitary Memoirs, the following sketch of a scene after the battle of Austerlitz:-" At the moment in which the Russianarmy was making its retreat, painfully, but in good order, on the ice of the lake, the Emperor Napoleon came riding at fullspeed toward the artillery. You are losing time,' he cried;fire upon those masses; they must be engulfed: fire upon the ice!' The order remained unexecuted for ten minutes. Invain several officers and myself were placed on the slope of ahill to produce the effect: their balls and mine rolled upon theice, without breaking it up . Seeing that, I tried a simplemethod of elevating light howitzers. Thealmost perpendicularfall of the heavy projectiles produced the desired effect. Mymethod was immediately followed by the adjoining batteries,and in less than no time we buried" some* " thousands ofRussians and Austrians under the waters of the lake."6In the plenitude of his resources, every obstacle seemed to vanish. "There shall be no Alps," he said; and he built hisperfect roads, climbing by graded galleries their steepestprecipices, until Italy was as open to Paris as any town in France. He laid his bones to, and wrought for his crown.Having decided what was to be done, he did that with might and main. He put out all his strength.He risked everything, and spared nothing, neither ammunition, nor money,nor troops, nor generals, nor himself.6666We like to see everything do its office after its kind,whether it be a milch-cow or a rattle- snake; and, if fighting bethe best mode of adjusting national differences (as large majorities of men seem to agree), certainly Bonaparte was right inmaking it thorough. The grand principle of war, " he said,was, that an army ought always to be ready, by day and by night, and at all hours, to make all the resistance it iscapable of making." He never economized his ammunition,but, on a hostile position, rained a torrent of iron, -shells.balls, grape- shot, to annihilate all defence. On any point of resistance, he concentrated squadron on squadron in overwhelming numbers, until it was swept out of existence. To aregiment of horse- chasseurs at Lobenstein, two days before the battle of Jena, Napoleon said, “' My lads, you must not fear

• As I quote at second hand, and cannot procure Seruzier, I dare not adopt the high figure I find .

372 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.death; when soldiers brave death, they drive him into theenemy's ranks." In the fury of assault, he no more sparedhimself. He went to the edge of his possibility. It is plainthat in Italy he did what he could, and all that he could. He came, several times, within an inch of ruin; and his ownperson was all but lost. He was flung into the marsh atArcola. The Austrians were between him and his troops, inthe melée, and he was brought off with desperate efforts. AtLonato, and at other places, he was on the point of being taken prisoner. He fought sixty battles. He had neverenough. Each victory was a new weapon. " My power wouldfall, were I not to support it by new achievements. Conquesthas made me what I am, and conquest must maintain me.”He felt, with every wise man, that as much life is needed forconservation, as for creation. We are always in peril, alwaysin a bad plight, just on the edge of destruction, and only to be saved by invention and courage.6666This vigour was guarded and tempered by the coldest prudence and punctuality. A thunderbolt in the attack, hewas found invulnerable in his entrenchments. His very attack was never the inspiration of courage, but the result of calculation. His idea of the best defence consists in being still theattacking party. " My ambition," he says, was great, but was of a cold nature." In one of his conversations with Las Casas,he remarked, As to moral courage, I have rarely met withthe two-o'clock- in-the-morning kind: I mean unpreparedcourage, that which is necessary on an unexpected occasion;and which, in spite of the most unforeseen events, leaves fullfreedom of judgment and decision: " and he did not hesitate to declare that he was himself eminently endowed with this" two-o'clock-in-the-morning courage, and that he had metwith few persons equal to himself in this respect."66Everything depended on the nicety of his combinations, and the stars were not more punctual than his arithmetic. Hispersonal attention descended to the smallest particulars. " At Montebello, I ordered Kellermann to attack with eight hundred horse, and with these he separated the six thousand Hungariangrenadiers, before the very eyes of the Austrian cavalry. Thiscavalry was half a league off, and required a quarter of an hour to arrive on the field of action; and I have observed, that it isalways these quarters of an hour that decide the fate of a battle."" Before he fought a battle, Bonaparte thought little about what he should do in case of success, but a great deal about what he should do in case of a reverse of fortune.' The sameprudence and good sense mark all his behaviour. His instruc- tions to his secretary at the Tuileries are worth remembering.During the night, enter my chamber as seldom as possible.66NAPOLEON; OR, THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 373Do not awake me when you have any good news to communi- cate with that there is no hurry. But when you bring bad news, rouse me instantly, for then there is not a moment to belost. " It was a whimsical economy of the same kind whichdictated his practice, when general in Italy, in regard to his burdensome correspondence. He directed Bourrienne to leaveall letters unopened for three weeks, and then observed with ·satisfaction how large a part of the correspondence had thus disposed of itself, and no longer required an answer. Hisachievement of business was immense, and enlarges the known powers of man. There have been many working kings, fromUlysses to William of Orange, but none who accomplished atithe of this man's performance.66To these gifts of nature, Napoleon added the advantage of having been born to a private and humble fortune. In hislater days, he had the weakness of wishing to add to hiscrowns and badges the prescription of aristocracy; but he knew his debt to his austere education, and made no secret ofhis contempt for the born kings, and for the hereditaryasses," as he coarsely styled the Bourbons. He said that, "intheir exile, they had learned nothing, and forgot nothing,"Bonaparte had passed through all the degrees of militaryservice, but also was citizen before he was emperor, and so has the key to citizenship. His remarks and estimates discoverthe information and justness of measurement of the middle class. Those who had to deal with him, found that he was notto be imposed upon, but could cipher as well as another man.This appears in all parts of his Memoirs, dictated at St. Helena.When the expenses of the empress, of his household, of hispalaces, had accumulated great debts, Napoleon examined the bills of the creditors himself, detected overcharges and errors,and reduced the claims by considerable sums.His grand weapon, namely, the millions whom he directed,he owed to the representative character which clothed him.He interests us as he stands for France and for Europe; andhe exists as captain and king, only as far as the Revolution, or the interest of the industrious masses, found an organ and aleader in him. In the social interests, he knewthe meaningand value of labour, and threw himself naturally on that side.I like an incident mentioned by one of his biographers at St. Helena. “ When walking with Mrs. Balcombe, some servants,carrying heavy boxes, passed by on the road, and Mrs. Balcombe desired them, in rather an angry tone, to keep back.Napoleon interfered, saying, ' Respect the burden, Madam.'In the time of the empire, he directed attention to the improve- ment and embellishment of the markets of the capital. Themarket-place," he said, " is the Louvre of the common people."669991374 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.1The principal works that have survived him are his magnificentroads. He filled the troops with his spirit, and a sort offreedom and companionship grew up between him and them,which the forms of his court never permitted between theofficers and himself. They performed, under his eye, that which no others could do. The best document of his relationto his troops is the order of the day on the morning of thebattle of Austerlitz, in which Napoleon promises the troopsthat he will keep his person out of reach of fire. This declaration, which is the reverse of that ordinarily made by generalsand sovereigns on the eve of a battle, sufficiently explains the devotion of the army to their leader.But though there is in particulars this identity betweenNapoleon and the mass of the people, his real strength lay in their conviction that he was their representative in his geniusand aims, not only when he courted, but when he controlledand even when he decimated them by his conscriptions. Heknew, as well as any Jacobin in France, how to philosophize on liberty and equality; and, when allusion was made to theprecious blood of centuries, which was spilled by the killing ofthe Duc d'Enghien, he suggested, “ Neither is my blood ditchwater." The people felt that no longer the throne was occu- pied, and the land sucked of its nourishment, by a small classof legitimates, secluded from all community with the childrenof the soil, and holding the ideas and superstitions of a long- forgotten state of society. Instead of that vampyre, a man ofthemselves held, in the Tuileries, knowledge and ideas liketheir own, opening, of course, to them and their children, allplaces of power and trust. The day of sleepy, selfish policy,ever narrowing the means and opportunities of young men,was ended, and a day of expansion and demand was come.market for all the powers and productions of man was opened;brilliant prizes glittered in the eyes of youth and talent. The old, iron-bound, feudal France was changed into a young Ohioor New York; and those who smarted under the immediaterigours of the new monarch, pardoned them, as the necessaryseverities of the military system which had driven out theoppressor. And even when the majority of the people had begun to ask whether they had really gained anything underthe exhausting levies of men and money of the new master,-the whole talent of the country, in every rank and kindred,took his part, and defended him as its natural patron. In1814, when advised to rely on the higher classes, Napoleon said to those around him, 66 Gentlemen, in the situation in whichI stand, my only nobility is the rabble of the Faubourgs."Napoleon met this natural expectation. The necessity of hisposition required a hospitality to every sort of talent, and itsANAPOLEON; OR, THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 37566appointment to trusts; and his feeling went along with this policy. Like every superior person, he undoubtedly felt adesire for men and compeers, and a wish to measure his power with other masters, and an impatience of fools and underlings.In Italy, he sought for men, and found none. "Good God!"he said, “ how rare men are! There are eighteen millions in Italy, and I have with difficulty found two, -Dandolo and Melzi." In later years, with larger experience, his respect for mankind was not increased. In a moment of bitterness, he said, to one of his oldest friends, Men deserve the contemptwith which they inspire me. I have only to put some goldlace on the coat of my virtuous republicans, and they immedi- ately become just what I wish them. " This impatience at levity was, however, an oblique tribute of respect to those able persons who commanded his regard, not only when he found them friends and coadjutors, but also when they resisted his will . He could not confound Fox and Pitt, Carnot, Lafayette,and Bernadotte, with the danglers of his court; and, in spite of the detraction which his systematic egotism dictated toward the great captains who conquered with and for him, ample acknowledgments are made by him to Lannes, Duroc, Kleber,Dessaix, Massena, Murat, Ney, and Augereau. If he felt himself their patron, and the founder of their fortunes, as when he said, " I made my generals out of mud, " he could not hide his satisfaction in receiving from them a seconding and support commensurate with the grandeur of his enterprise.In the Russian campaign, he was so much impressed by the courage and resources of Marshal Ney, that he said, " I havetwo hundred millions in my coffers, and I would give them all for Ney." The characters which he has drawn of several of his marshals are discriminating, and, though they did not content the insatiable vanity of French officers, are, no doubt, sub- stantially just. And, in fact, every species of merit was sought and advanced under his government. " I know," he said, "the depth and draught of water of every one of my generals." Natural power was sure to be well received at his court. Seventeen men, in his time, were raised from commonsoldiers to the rank of king, marshal, duke, or general; and the crosses of his Legion of Honour were given to personal valour,and not to family connexion. "When soldiers have beenbaptized in the fire of a battle-field, they have all one rank in my eyes.”When a natural king becomes a titular king, everybody ispleased and satisfied . The Revolution entitled the strongpopulace of the Faubourg St. Antoine, and every horse-boy and powder-monkey in the army, to look on Napoleon, as fleshof his flesh, and the creature of his party: but there is some.376 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.thing in the success of grand talent which enlists an universalsympathy. For, in the prevalence of sense and spirit over stupidity and malversation, all reasonable men have an in- terest; and, as intellectual beings, we feel the air purified by the electric shock, when material force is overthrown by intel- lectual energies. As soon as we are removed out of the reach of local and accidental partialities, man feels that Napoleon fights for him; these are honest victories; this strong steam- engine does our work. Whatever appeals to the imagination,by transcending the ordinary limits of human ability, wonder- fully encourages and liberates us. This capacious head,revolving and disposing sovereignly trains of affairs, and animating such multitudes of agents; this eye, which looked through Europe; this prompt invention; this inexhaustibleresource; —what events! what romantic pictures! what strangesituations! —when spying the Alps, by a sunset in the Sicilian sea; drawing up his army for battle, in sight of the Pyramids,and saying to his troops, " From the tops of those pyramids,forty centuries look down on you;" fording the Red Sea;wading in the gulf of the Isthmus of Suez. On the shore of Ptolemais, gigantic projects agitated him. "Had Acre fallen,I should have changed the face of the world." His army, onthe night of the battle of Austerlitz, which was the anniversary of his inauguration as Emperor, presented him with a bouquet of forty standards taken in the fight. Perhaps it is a little puerile, the pleasure he took in making these contrasts glaring,as when he pleased himself with making kings wait in his antechambers, at Tilsit, at Paris, and at Erfurt.We cannot, in the universal imbecility, indecision, andindolence of men, sufficiently congratulate ourselves on this strong and ready actor, who took occasion by the beard, andshowed us how much may be accomplished by the mere force of such virtues as all men possess in less degrees; namely, bypunctuality, by personal attention, by courage, and thorough- ness. "The Austrians," he said, " do not know the value oftime." I should cite him, in his earlier years, as a model ofprudence. His power does not consist in any wild or extravagant force; in any enthusiasm, like Mahomet's; or singularpower of persuasion; but in the exercise of common sense on each emergency, instead of abiding by rules and customs.Thelesson he teaches is that which vigour always teaches-thatthere is always room for it. To what heaps of cowardly doubts is not that man's life an answer. When he appeared,it was the belief of all military men that there could be nothingnew in war; as it is the belief of men to- day that nothing new can be undertaken in politics, or in church, or in letters, or in trade, or in farming, or in our social manners and customs;NAPOLEON; OR, THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 377and as it is, at all times, the belief of society that the world is used up. But Bonaparte knew better than society; and,moreover, knew that he knew better. I think all men knowbetter than they do; know that the institutions we so volublycommend are go-carts and baubles; but they dare not trusttheir presentiments. Bonaparte relied on his own sense,and did not care a bean for other people's. The world treatedhis novelties just as it treats everybody's novelties-madeinfinite objection; mustered all the impediments: but hesnapped his finger at their objections.What creates greatdifficulty," he remarks, " in the profession of the land-commander, is the necessity of feeding so many men and animals.If he allows himself to be guided by the commissaries, he willnever stir, and all his expeditions will fail." An example ofhis common sense is what he says of the passage of the Alpsin winter, which, all writers, one repeating after the other,had described as impracticable. "The winter," says Napoleon,"is not the most unfavourable season for the passage of loftymountains. The snow is then firm, the weather settled, andthere is nothing to fear from avalanches, the real and onlydanger to be apprehended in the Alps. On those high mountains, there are often very fine days in December, of a dry cold, with extreme calmness in the air." Read his account,too, of the way in which battles are gained. " In all battles, amoment occurs, when the bravest troops, after having madethe greatest efforts, feel inclined to run. That terror proceedsfrom a want of confidence in their own courage; and it onlyrequires a slight opportunity, a pretence, to restore confidenceto them. The art is to give rise to the opportunity, and to invent the pretence. At Arcola, I won the battle with twenty- five horsem*n. I seized that moment of lassitude, gave everyman a trumpet, and gained the day with this handful. Yousee that two armies are two bodies which meet, and endeavourto frighten each other: a moment of panic occurs, and thatmoment must be turned to advantage. When a man has been present in many actions, he distinguishes that moment withoutdifficulty: it is as easy as casting up an addition."This deputy of the nineteenth century added to his gifts acapacity for speculation on general topics. He delighted inrunning through the range of practical, of literary, and ofabstract questions. His opinion is always original, and to the purpose. On the voyage to Egypt, he liked, after dinner, tofix on three or four persons to support a proposition, and as many to oppose it . He gave a subject, and the discussionsturned on questions of religion, the different kinds of govern- ment, and the art of war. One day, he asked whether theplanets were inhabited? On another, what was the age of the378 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.66world? Then he proposed to consider the probability of the destruction of the globe, either by water or by fire: at another time, the truth or fallacy of presentiments, and the interpreta- tion of dreams. He was very fond of talking of religion. In 1806, he conversed with Fournier, bishop of Montpellier, onmatters of theology. There were two points on which they could not agree, viz. , that of hell, and that of salvation out of the pale of the church. The Emperor told Josephine, that he disputed like a devil on these two points, on which the bishop was inexorable. To the philosophers he readily yielded all that was proved against religion as the work of men and time; but he would not hear of materialism. One fine night,on deck, amid a clatter of materialism, Bonaparte pointed to the stars, and said, You may talk as long as you please,gentlemen, but who made all that?" He delighted in the conversation of men of science, particularly of Monge and Berthollet; but the men of letters he slighted; " they were manufacturers of phrases." Of medicine, too, he was fond of talking, and with those of its practitioners whom he most esteemed-with Corvisart at Paris, and with Antonomarchi at St. Helena. "Believe me," he said to the last, we had better leave off all these remedies: life is a fortress which neitheryou nor I know anything about. Why throw obstacles in the way of its defence? Its own means are superior to all the apparatus of your laboratories. Corvisart candidly agreed with me, that all your filthy mixtures are good for nothing.Medicine is a collection of uncertain prescriptions, the results of which, taken collectively, are more fatal than useful to mankind. Water, air, and cleanliness, are the chief articles in my pharmacopoeia. ”His memoirs, dictated to Count Montholon and GeneralGourgaud, at St. Helena, have great value, after all the deduc- tion that, it seems, is to be made from them, on account ofhis known disingenuousness. He has the good-nature ofstrength and conscious superiority. I admire his simple, clearnarrative of his battles; -good as Cæsar's; his good- natured and sufficiently respectful account of Marshal Wurmser andhis other antagonists, and his own equality as a writer to his varying subject. The most agreeable portion is the Campaign in Egypt.He had hours of thought and wisdom. In intervals of leisure, either in the camp or the palace, Napoleon appears asa man of genius, directing on abstract questions the native appetite for truth, and the impatience of words, he was wont to show in war. He could enjoy every play of invention, aromance, a bon mot, as well as a stratagem in a campaign. Hedelighted to fascinate Josephine and her ladies, in a dim-NAPOLEON; OR, THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 379lighted apartment, by the terrors of a fiction, to which hisvoice and dramatic power lent every addition.I call Napoleon the agent or attorney of the middle class ofmodern society; of the throng who fill the markets, shops,counting-houses, manufactories, ships, of the modern world,aiming to be rich. He was the agitator, the destroyer of prescription, the internal improver, the liberal, the radical, theinventor of means, the opener of doors and markets, the sub- verter of monopoly and abuse. Of course, the rich andaristocratic did not like him. England, the centre of capital,and Rome and Austria, centres of tradition and genealogy,opposed him. The consternation of the dull and conservative classes, the terror of the foolish old men and old women of theRoman conclave-who in their despair took hold of anything,and would cling to red-hot iron-the vain attempts of statiststo amuse and deceive him, of the emperor of Austria to bribehim; and the instinct of the young, ardent, and active men,everywhere, which pointed him out as the giant of the middleclass, make his history bright and commanding. He had the virtues of the masses of his constituents: he had also theirvices. I am sorry that the brilliant picture has its reverse.But that is the fatal quality which we discover in our pursuit of wealth, that it is treacherous, and is bought by the breakingor weakening of the sentiments: and it is inevitable that weshould find the same fact in the history of this champion, whoproposed to himself simply a brilliant career, without any stipulation or scruple concerning the means.Bonaparte was singularly destitute of generous sentiments,The highest- placed individual in the most cultivated age and population of the world-he has not the merit of commontruth and honesty. He is unjust to his generals; egotistic,and monopolizing; meanly stealing the credit of their great actions from Kellermann, from Bernadotte; intriguing toinvolve his faithful Junot in hopeless bankruptcy, in order todrive him to a distance from Paris, because the familiarity ofhis manners offends the new pride of his throne. He is aboundless liar. The official paper, his " Moniteurs," and allhis bulletins, are proverbs for saying what he wished to be believed; and worse-he sat, in his premature old age, in hislonely island, coldly falsifying facts, and dates, and characters,and giving to history a theatrical éclat. Like all Frenchmen,he has a passion for stage effect. Every action that breathesof generosity is poisoned by this calculation. His star, hislove of glory, his doctrine of the immortality of the soul, are all French. “ I must dazzle and astonish. If I were to givethe liberty of the press, my power could not last three days."To make a great noise is his favourite design. “ A great380 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.reputation is a great noise: the more there is made, the fartheroff it is heard. Laws, institutions, monuments, nations, allfall; but the noise continues, and resounds in after ages."His doctrine of immortality is simply fame. His theory ofinfluence is not flattering. "There are two levers for movingmen-interest and fear. Love is a silly infatuation, dependupon it. Friendship is but a name. I love nobody. I do noteven love my brothers: perhaps Joseph, a little, from habit,and because he is my elder; and Duroc, I love him too; butwhy?-because his character pleases me: he is stern andresolute, and, I believe, the fellow never shed a tear. For mypart, I know very well that I have no true friends. As long asI continue to be what I am, I may have as many pretendedfriends as I please. Leave sensibility to women: but menshould be firm in heart and purpose, or they should havenothing to do with war and government." He was thoroughly unscrupulous. He would steal, slander, assassinate, drown,and poison, as his interest dictated . He had no generosity;but mere vulgar hatred: he was intensely selfish: he wasperfidious: he cheated at cards: he was a prodigious gossip;and opened letters; and delighted in his infamous police; andrubbed his hands with joy when he had intercepted somemorsel of intelligence concerning the men and women abouthim, boasting that " he knew every thing;" and interferedwith the cutting the dresses of the women; and listened afterthe hurrahs and the compliments of the street, incognito. His manners were coarse. He treated women with low familiarity.He had the habit of pulling their ears, and pinching theircheeks, when he was in good humour, and of pulling the earsand whiskers of men, and of striking and horse- play withthem, to his last days. It does not appear that he listened atkey-holes, or, at least, that he was caught at it. In short,when you have penetrated through all the circles of power andsplendour, you were not dealing with a gentleman, at last;but with an impostor and a rogue: and he fully deserves theepithet of Jupiter Scapin, or a sort of Scamp Jupiter.IIn describing the two parties into which modern society divides itself, the democrat and the conservative, -I said,Bonaparte represents the Democrat, or the party of men of business, against the stationary or conservative party.omitted then to say, what is material to the statement, namely,that these two parties differ only as young and old. Thedemocrat is a young conservative; and the conservative is an old democrat. The aristocrat is the democrat ripe, andgone to seed, because both parties stand on the one groundof the supreme value of property, which one endeavours toNAPOLEON; OR, THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 381get, and the other to keep. Bonaparte may be said to represent the whole history of this party, its youth and its age;yes, and with poetic justice, its fate, in his own. The counterrevolution, the counter- party, still waits for its organ andrepresentative, in a lover and a man of truly public and universal aims.Here was an experiment, under the most favourable conditions, of the powers of intellect without conscience. Neverwas such a leader so endowed, and so weaponed; never leader found such aids and followers. And what was the result ofthis vast talent and power, of these immense armies, burnedcities, squandered treasures, immolated millions of men, of this demoralized Europe? It came to no result. All passed away,like the smoke of his artillery, and left no trace. He leftFrance smaller, poorer, feebler, than he found it; and the whole contest for freedom was to be begun again. Theattempt was, in principle, suicidal. France served him withlife, and limb, and estate, as long as it could identify its interest with him; but when men saw that after victory was another war; after the destruction of armies, new conscriptions; and they who had toiled so desperately were nevernearer to the reward, ―they could not spend what they had earned, nor repose on their down-beds, nor strut in theirchateaux, they deserted him. Men found that his absorbing egotism was deadly to all other men. It resembled thetorpedo, which inflicts a succession of shocks on any one whotakes hold of it, producing spasms which contract the musclesof the hand, so that the man cannot open his fingers; and theanimal inflicts new and more violent shocks, until he paralyzes and kills his victim. So this exorbitant egotist narrowed,impoverished, and absorbed the power and existence of those who served him; and the universal cry of France and ofEurope, in 1814, was, " enough of him; " assez de Bonaparte.It was not Bonaparte's fault. He did all that in him lay, tolive and thrive without moral principle. It was the nature ofthings, the eternal law of man and of the world, which baulked and ruined him; and the result, in a million experiments, willbe the same. Every experiment, by multitudes or by indi- viduals, that has a sensual and selfish aim, will fail. Thepacific Fourier will be as inefficient as the pernicious Napoleon.As long as our civilization is essentially one of property, offences, of exclusiveness, it will be mocked by delusions. Our riches will leave us sick; there will be bitterness in ourlaughter; and our wine will burn our mouth. Only thatgood profits, which we can taste with all doors open, and which serves all men.382 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.VII.-GOETHE; OR, THE WRITER.FIND a provision, in the constitution ofthe world, forthe writer or secretary, who is to report the doings of the miraculous spirit of life that everywhere throbs and works.His office is a reception of the facts into the mind, and then aselection of the eminent and characteristic experiences.Nature will be reported. All things are engaged in writingtheir history. The planet, the pebble, goes attended by itsshadow. The rolling rock leaves its scratches on the mountain;the river, its channel in the soil; the animal, its bones in thestratum; the fern and leaf, their modest epitaph in the coal.The falling drop makes its sculpture in the sand or stone.Not a foot steps into the snow, or along the ground, but prints,in characters more or less lasting, a map of its march. Everyact of the man inscribes itself in the memories of his fellows,and in his own manners and face. The air is full of sounds;the sky, of tokens; the ground is all memoranda and signatures; and every object covered over with hints, which speak to the intelligent.In nature, this self-registration is incessant, and the narrative is the print of the seal.. It neither exceeds nor comes short of the fact. But nature strives upward; and, in man,the report is something more than print of the seal. It is anew and finer form of the original. The record is alive, as that which it recorded is alive. In man, the memory is a kindof looking-glass, which, having received the images of sur- rounding objects, is touched with life, and disposes them in anew order. The facts which transpired do not lie in it inert;but some subside, and others shine; so that soon we have anew picture, composed of the eminent experiences. The man co-operates. He loves to communicate; and that which is forhim to say lies as a load on his heart until it is delivered.But, besides the universal joy of conversation, some men areborn with exalted powers for this second creation.Men areborn to write. The gardener saves every slip, and seed, andpeach- stone: his vocation is to be a planter of plants. Not less does the writer attend his affair. Whatever he beholds orexperiences, comes to him as a model, and sits for its picture.He counts it all nonsense that they say, that some things are undescribable. He believes that all that can be thought canbe written, first or last; and he would report the Holy Ghost,or attempt it. Nothing so broad, so subtle, or so dear, butGOETHE; OR, THE WRITER. 3836666comes therefore commended to his pen, —and he will write.In his eyes, a man is the faculty of reporting, and the universe is the possibility of being reported. In conversation, incalamity, he finds new materials; as our German poet said,some god gave me the power to paint what I suffer." Hedraws his rents from rage and pain. By acting rashly, he buys the power of talking wisely. Vexations, and a tempestof passion, only fill his sail; as the good Luther writes,When I am angry, I can pray well, and preach well; " and,if we knew the genesis of fine strokes of eloquence, they might recall the complaisance of Sultan Amurath,, who struck offsome Persian heads, that his physician, Vesalius, might see the spasms in the muscles of the neck. His failures are the préparation of his victories . A new thought, or a crisis ofpassion, apprises him that all that he has yet learned andwritten is exoteric, -is not the fact, but some rumour of thefact. What then? Does he throw away the pen? No; hebegins again to describe in the new light which has shined onhim,-if, by some means, he may yet save some true word.Nature conspires. Whatever can be thought can be spoken,and still rises for utterance, though to rude and stammeringorgans. If they cannot compass it, it waits and works, until,at last, it moulds them to its perfect will, and is articulated.This striving after imitative expression, which one meets everywhere, is significant of the aim of nature, but is merestenography. There are higher degrees, and nature has moresplendid endowments for those whom she elects to a superior office; for the class of scholars or writers, who see connectionwhere the multitude see fragments, and who are impelled toexhibit the facts in order, and so to supply the axis on whichthe frame of things turns. Nature has dearly at heart theformation of the speculative man, or scholar. It is an endnever lost sight of, and is prepared in the original casting ofthings. He is no permissive or accidental appearance, butan organic agent, one of the estates of the realm, providedand prepared, from of old and from everlasting, in the knitting and contexture of things. Presentiments, impulses, cheerhim. There is a certain heat in the breast, which attendsthe perception of a primary truth, which is the shining of the spiritual sun down into the shaft of the mine. Every thought which dawns on the mind, in the moment of its emergenceannounces its own rank, -whether it is some whimsy, or whether it is a power.If he have his incitements , there is, on the other side, invitation and need enough of his gift. Society has, at all times,the same want, namely, of one sane man with adequate powersof expression to hold up each object of monomania in its right384 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.relations. The ambitious and mercenary bring their last newmumbo-jumbo, whether tariff, Texas, railroad, Romanism,mesmerism, or California; and, by detaching the object fromits relations, easily succeed in making it seen in a glare; and a multitude go mad about it, and they are not to be reprovedor cured by the opposite multitude, who are kept from thisparticular insanity by an equal frenzy on another crotchet.But let one man have the comprehensive eye that can replacethis isolated prodigy in its right neighbourhood and bearings -the illusion vanishes, and the returning reason of the community thanks the reason of the monitor.The scholar is the man of the ages, but he must also wishwith other men to stand well with his contemporaries. Butthere is a certain ridicule, among superficial people, thrown onthe scholars or clerisy, which is of no import, unless the scholar heed it. In this country, the emphasis of conversation,and ofpublic opinion, commends the practical man; and the solidportion of the community is named with significant respect in every circle. Our people are of Bonaparte's opinion con- cerning ideologists. Ideas are subversive of social order andcomfort, and at last make a fool of the possessor. It isbelieved, the ordering a cargo of goods from New York toSmyrna; or, the running up and down to procure a company of subscribers to set a-going five or ten thousand spindles; or,the negociations of a caucus, and the practising on the prejudices and facility of country-people, to secure their votes in November-is practical and commendable.If I were to compare action of a much higher strain with alife of contemplation, I should not venture to pronounce with much confidence in favour of the former. Mankind have sucha deep stake in inward illumination, that there is much to besaid by the hermit or monk in defence of his life of thought and prayer. A certain partiality, a headiness, and loss of balance, is the tax which all action must pay. Act, if you like-but you do it at your peril. Men's actions are too strong for them. Show me a man who has acted, and who has notbeen the victim and slave of his action. What they have donecommits and enforces them to do the same again. The firstact, which was to be an experiment, becomes a sacrament. Thefiery reforiner embodies his aspiration in some rite or covenant,and he and his friends cleave to the form, and lose the aspiration. The Quaker has established Quakerism, the Shaker hasestablished his monastery and his dance; and, although each prates of spirit, there is no spirit, but repetition, which is antispiritual. But where are his new things of to-day?actions of enthusiasm, this drawback appears: but in thoselower activities, which have no higher aim than to make usInGOETHE; OR, THE WRITER. 385more comfortable and more cowardly, in actions of cunning,actions that steal and lie, actions that divorce the speculativefrom the practical faculty, and put a ban on reason and sentiment, there is nothing else but drawback and negation. The Hindoos write in their sacred books, " Children only, and notthe learned, speak of the speculative and the practical faculties as two. They are but one, for both obtain the selfsame end,and the place which is gained by the followers of the one, isgained by the followers of the other. That man seeth, whoseeth that the speculative and the practical doctrines are one."For great action must draw on the spiritual nature. Themeasure of action is the sentiment from which it proceeds.The greatest action may easily be one of the most private circ*mstance.This disparagement will not come from the leaders, but frominferior persons. The robust gentlemen who stand at the headof the practical class, share the ideas of the time, and have toomuch sympathy with the speculative class. It is not from menexcellent in any kind, that disparagement of any other is to be looked for. With such, Talleyrand's question is ever the mainone; not, is he rich? is he committed? is he well-meaning?has he this or that faculty? is he of the movement? is he ofthe establishment?-but, Is he anybody? does he stand forsomething? He must be good of his kind. That is all thatTalleyrand, all that State Street, all that the common sense of mankind asks. Be real and admirable, not as we know, but asyou know. Able men do not care in what kind a man is able,so only that he is able. A master likes a master, and does notstipulate whether it be orator, artist, craftsman, or king.Society has really no graver interest than the well- being of the literary class. And it is not to be denied that men arecordial in their recognition and welcome of intellectual accomplishments. Still the writer does not stand with us onany commanding ground. I think this to be his own fault.A pound passes for a pound. There have been times when hewas a sacred person: he wrote Bibles; the first hymns; the codes; the epics; tragic songs; Sibylline verses; Chaldean oracles; Laconian sentences, inscribed on temple walls. Everyword was true, and woke the nations to new life. He wrotewithout levity, and without choice. Every word was carvedbefore his eyes, into the earth and the sky; and the sun andstars were only letters of the same purport, and of no morenecessity. But how can he be honoured, when he does not honour himself; when he loses himself in the crowd; when heis no longer the lawgiver, but the sycophant, ducking to thegiddy opinion of a reckless public; when he must sustain withshameless advocacy some bad government, or must bark, all VOL. I 2 a386 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.the year round, in opposition; or write conventional criticism,or profligate novels; or at any rate, write without thought, andwithout recurrence, by day and by night, to the sources of inspiration?Some reply to these questions may be furnished by lookingover the list of men of literary genius in our age. Among these, no more instructive name occurs than that of Goethe, to represent the powers and duties of the scholar or writer.I described Bonaparte as a representative of the popularexternal life and aims of the nineteenth century. Its other half,its poet, is Goethe, a man quite domesticated in the century,breathing its air, enjoying its fruits, impossible at any earliertime, and taking away, by his colossal parts, the reproach of weakness, which, but for him, would lie on the intellectualworks of the period. He appears at a time when a generalculture has spread itself, and has smoothed down all sharp individual traits; when, in the absence of heroic characters, asocial comfort and co-operation have come in. There is no poet, but scores of poetic writers; no Columbus, but hundredsof post- captains, with transit- telescope, barometer, and concentrated soup and pemmican; no Demosthenes, no Chatham,but any number of clever parliamentary and forensic debaters;no prophet or saint, but colleges of divinity; no learned man,but learned societies, a cheap press, reading- rooms, and bookclubs, without number. There was never such a miscellany of facts. The world extends itself like American trade.conceive Greek or Roman life-life in the middle ages-to bea simple and comprehensible affair; but modern life to respect a multitude of things, which is distracting.WeGoethe was the philosopher of this multiplicity; hundredhanded, Argus-eyed, able and happy to cope with this rollingmiscellany of facts and sciences, and, by his own versatility, to dispose of them with ease; a manly mind, unembarrassed bythe variety of coats of convention with which life had gotencrusted, easily able by his subtlety to pierce these, and to draw his strength from nature, with which he lived in fullcommunion. What is strange, too, he lived in a small town,in a petty state, in a defeated state, and in a time whenGermany played no such leading part in the world's affairs as to swell the bosom of her sons with any metropolitan pride,such as might have cheered a French, or English, or once, aRoman or Attic genius. Yet there is no trace of provincial limitation in his muse. He is not a debtor to his position, butwas born with a free and controlling genius.The Helena, or the second part of Faust, is a philosophy of literature set in poetry; the work of one who found himself the master of histories, mythologies, philosophies , sciences,GOETHE; OR, THE WRITER. 387and national literatures, in the encyclopædical manner in which modern erudition, with its international intercourse ofthe whole earth's population, researches into Indian, Etruscan,and all Cyclopæan arts, geology, chemistry, astronomy; and every one of these kingdoms assuming a certain aërial and poetic character, by reason of the multitude. One looks at aking with reverence; but if one should chance to be at acongress of kings, the eye would take liberties with thepeculiarities of each. These are not wild miraculous songs,but elaborate forms, to which the poet has confided the results of eighty years of observation. This reflective and criticalwisdom makes the poem more truly the flower of this time.It dates itself. Still he is a poet-poet of a prouder laurel than any contemporary, and, under this plague of microscopes (for he seems to see out of every pore of his skin), strikes the harp with a hero's strength and grace.The wonder of the book is its superior intelligence. In themenstruum of this man's wit, the past and the present ages,and their religions, politics, and modes of thinking, are dissolved into archetypes and ideas. What new mythologies sailthrough his head! The Greeks said, that Alexander went asfar as Chaos; Goethe went, only the other day, as far; andone step farther he hazarded, and brought himself safe back.There is a heart- cheering freedom in his speculation. The immense horizon which journeys with us lends its majesty totrifles, and to matters of convenience and necessity, as to solemn and festal performances. He was the soul of hiscentury. If that was learned, and had become, by population,compact organization, and drill of parts, one great Exploring Expedition, accumulating a glut of facts and fruits too fast forany hitherto-existing savans to classify, this man's mind had ample chambers for the distribution of all. He had a power tounite the detached atoms again by their own law. He hasclothed our modern existence with poetry. Amid littlenessand detail, he detected the Genius of life, the old cunning Proteus, nestling close beside us, and showed that the dulnessand prose we ascribe to the age was only another of his masks:-"His very flight is presence in disguise: "that he had put off a gay uniform for a fatigue dress, and wasnot a whit less vivacious or rich in Liverpool or the Hague,than once in Rome or Antioch. He sought him in public squares and main streets, in boulevards and hotels; and, in thesolidest kingdom of routine and the senses, he showed the lurking dæmonic power, that, in actions of routine, a thread ofmythology and fable spins itself: and this, by tracing the388 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.He pedigree of every usage and practice, every institution, utensil,and means, home to its origin in the structure of man.had an extreme impatience of conjecture and of rhetoric. " Ihave guesses enough of my own; if a man write a book, lethim set down only what he knows. " He writes in the plainestand lowest tone, omitting a great deal more than he writes, and putting ever a thing for a word. He has explained the distinction between the antique and the modern spirit and art.He has defined art, its scope and laws. He has said the bestthings about nature that ever were said. He treats nature asthe old philosophers, as the seven wise masters did-and, withwhatever loss of French tabulation and dissection, poetry andhumanity remain to us; and they have some doctoral skill.Eyes are better, on the whole, than telescopes or microscopes.He has contributed a key to many parts of nature, through therare turn for unity and simplicity in his mind. Thus Goethesuggested the leading idea of modern botany, that a leaf, ortheeye of a leaf, is the unit of botany, and that every part of theplant is only a transformed leaf to meet a new condition; and,by varying the conditions, a leaf may be converted into any other organ, and any other organ into a leaf. In like manner,in osteology, he assumed that one vertebra of the spine mightbe considered the unit of the skeleton: the head was only theuppermost vertebra transformed. "The plant goes from knotto knot, closing, at last, with the flower and the seed. So thetape-worm, the caterpillar, goes from knot to knot, and closeswith the head. Man and the higher animals are built upthrough the vertebræ, the powers being concentrated in the head." In optics, again, he rejected the artificial theory ofseven colours, and considered that every colour was the mixtureof light and darkness in new proportions. It is really of verylittle consequence what topic he writes upon. He sees at every pore, and has a certain gravitation towards truth. He willrealize what you say. He hates to be trifled with, and to bemade to say over again some old wife's fable, that has hadpossession of men's faith these thousand years. He may as well see if it is true as another. He sifts it. I am here, hewould say, to be the measure and judge of these things. Whyshould I take them on trust? And, therefore, what he says ofreligion, of passion, of marriage, of manners, of property, of paper money, of periods of belief, of omens, of luck, or whateverelse, refuses to be forgotten.Take the most remarkable example that could occur of this tendency to verify every term in popular use. The Devil hadplayed an important part in mythology in all times. Goethe would have no word that does not cover a thing. The samemeasure will still serve: " I have never heard of any crimeGOETHE; OR, THE WRITER. 389which I might not have committed." So he flies at the throatof this imp. He shall be real; he shall be modern; he shall beEuropean; he shall dress like a gentleman, and accept the manners, and walk in the streets, and be well initiated in thelife of Vienna, and of Heidelberg, in 1820-or he shall notexist. Accordingly, he stripped him of mythologic gear, of horns, cloven foot, harpoon tail, brimstone, and blue- fire, and,instead of looking in books and pictures, looked for him in his own mind, in every shade of coldness, selfishness, and unbeliefthat, in crowds, or in solitude, darkens over the human thought -and found that the portrait gained reality and terror by everything he added, and by everything he took away. Hefound that the essence of this hobgoblin, which had hovered in shadow about the habitations of men, ever since there were men, waspure intellect, applied-as always there is a tendency-to theservice of the senses: and he flung into literature, in his Mephistopheles, the first organic figure that has been added forsome ages, and which will remain as long as the Prometheus.I have no design to enter into any analysis of his numerousworks. They consist of translations, criticism, dramas, lyricand every other description of poems, literary journals, and portraits of distinguished men. Yet I cannot omit to specify the Wilhelm Meister.Wilhelm Meister is a novel in every sense, the first of itskind, called by its admirers the only delineation of modernsociety as if other novels, those of Scott, for example, dealtwith costume and condition, this with the spirit of life. It is a book over which some veil is still drawn. It is read by veryintelligent persons with wonder and delight. It is preferred by some such to Hamlet, as a work of genius. I suppose, no book of this century can compare with it in its delicious sweetness,so new, so provoking to the mind, gratifying it with so many and so solid thoughts, just insights into life, and manners, andcharacters; so many good hints for the conduct of life, so many unexpected glimpses into a higher sphere, and never a trace ofrhetoric or dulness. A very provoking book to the curiosity of young men of genius, but a very unsatisfactory one. Lovers of light reading, those who look in it for the entertainmentthey find in a romance, are disappointed. On the other hand,those who begin it with the higher hope to read in it a worthy history of genius, and the just award of the laurel to its toilsand denials, have also reason to complain. We had an English romance here, not long ago, professing to embody the hope ofa new age, and to unfold the political hope of the party called 'Young England, ' in which the only reward of virtue is aseat in parliament, and a peerage Goethe's romance has aconclusion as lame and immoral. George Sand, in Consuelo390 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.66and its continuation, has sketched a truer and more dignifiedpicture. In the progress of the story, the characters of the hero and heroine expand at a rate that shivers the porcelainchess- table of aristocratic convention: they quit the society andhabits of their rank; they lose their wealth; they become theservants of great ideas, and of the most generous social ends;until, at last, the hero, who is the centre and fountain of anassociation for the rendering of the noblest benefits to the human race, no longer answers to his own titled name: itsounds foreign and remote in his ear. "I am only man," hesays; I breathe and work for man, " and this in poverty and extreme sacrifices. Goethe's hero, on the contrary, has somany weaknesses and impurities, and keeps such bad company,that the sober English public, when the book was translated,were disgusted. And yet it is so crammed with wisdom, withknowledge of the world, and with knowledge of laws; the persons so truly and subtly drawn, and with such few strokes,and not a word too much, the book remains ever so new andunexhausted, that we must even let it go its way, and be willingto get what good from it we can, assured that it has only begun its office, and has millions of readers yet to serve.The argument is the passage of a democrat to the aristocracy,using both words in their best sense. And this passage is notmade in any mean or creeping way, but through the hall door.Nature and character assist, and the rank is made real bysense and probity in the nobles. No generous youth canescape this charm of reality in the book, so that it is highlystimulating to intellect and courage.66 The ardent and holy Novalis characterized the book as' thoroughly modern and prosaic; the romantic is completely levelled in it; so is the poetry of nature; the wonderful. Thebook treats only of the ordinary affairs of men: it is a poeticized civic and domestic story. The wonderful in it is expresslytreated as fiction and enthusiastic dreaming:"-and yet, what is also characteristic, Novalis soon returned to this book, andit remained his favourite reading to the end of his life.What distinguishes Goethe for French and English readers, is a property which he shares with his nation-a habitual referenceto interior truth. In England and in America, there is arespect for talent; and, if it is exerted in support of any ascertained or intelligible interest or party, or in regularopposition to any, the public is satisfied. In France, there iseven a greater delight in intellectual brilliancy, for its own sake. And, in all these countries, men of talent write fromtalent. It is enough if the understanding is occupied, thetaste propitiated so many columns, so many hours, filled in alively and creditable way. The German intellect wants theGOETHE; OR, THE WRITER. 391French sprightliness, the fine practical understanding of the English, and the American adventure; but it has a certainprobity, which never rests in a superficial performance, butasks steadily, To what end? A German public asks for acontrolling sincerity. Here is activity of thought; but what is it for? What does the man mean? Whence, whence all thesethoughts?Talent alone cannot make a writer. There must be a manbehind the book; a personality which, by birth and quality, ispledged to the doctrines there set forth, and which exists to see and state things so, and not otherwise; holding things becausethey are things. If he cannot rightly express himself to- day,the same things subsist, and will open themselves to- morrow.There lies the burden on his mind-the burden of truth to bedeclared-more or less understood; and it constitutes hisbusiness and calling in the world, to see those facts through,and to make them known. What signifies that he trips andstammers; that his voice is harsh or hissing; that his methodor his tropes are inadequate? That message will find methodand imagery, articulation and melody. Though he weredumb, it would speak. If not-if there be no such God's word in the man-what care we how adroit, how fluent, how brilliant he is?It makes a great difference to the force of any sentence,whether there be a man behind it, or no. In the learnedjournal, in the influential newspaper, I discern no form; onlysome irresponsible shadow; oftener some moneyed corporation,or some dangler, who hopes, in the mask and robes of hisparagraph, to pass for somebody. But, through every clause and part of speech of a right book, I meet the eyes of the mostdetermined of men: his force and terror inundate every word:the commas and dashes are alive; so that the writing is athletic and nimble can go far and live long.In England and America, one may be an adept in thewritings of a Greek or Latin poet, without any poetic taste orfire. That a man has spent years on Plato and Proclus, doesnot afford a presumption that he holds heroic opinions, or undervalues the fashions of his town. But the German nationhave the most ridiculous good faith on these subjects: the student, out of the lecture- room, still broods on the lessons; andthe professor cannot divest himself of the fancy, that thetruths of philosophy have some application to Berlin and Munich. This earnestness enables them to outsee men ofmuch more talent. Hence, almost all the valuable distinctionswhich are current in higher conversation, have been derived tous from Germany. But, whilst men distinguished for wit andlearning, in England and France, adopt their study and their392 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.side with a certain levity, and are not understood to be verydeeply engaged, from grounds of character, to the topic or the part they espouse-Goethe, the head and body of the Germannation, does not speak from talent, but the truth shinesthrough: he is very wise, though his talent often veils hiswisdom. However excellent his sentence is, he has somewhatbetter in view. It awakens my curiosity. He has the formidable independence which converse with truth gives: hearyou, or forbear, his fact abides; and your interest in the writeris not confined to his story, and he dismissed from memory,when he has performed his task creditably, as a baker when he has left his loaf; but his work is the least part of him. The old Eternal Genius who built the world has confided himselfmore to this man than to any other. I dare not say thatGoethe ascended to the highest grounds from which genius hasspoken. He has not worshipped the highest unity; he is inca- pable of a self- surrender to the moral sentiment. There arenobler strains in poetry than any he has sounded. There arewriters poorer in talent, whose tone is purer, and more touches the heart. Goethe can never be dear to men. His is not eventhe devotion to pure truth; but to truth for the sake ofculture. He has no aims less large than the conquest ofuniversal nature, of universal truth, to be his portion: a mannot to be bribed, nor deceived, nor overawed; of a stoical selfcommand and self- denial, and having one test for all menWhat can you teach me? All possessions are valued by him forthat only; rank, privileges, health, time, being itself.He is the type of culture, the amateur of all arts, and sciences, and events; artistic, but not artist; spiritual, but notspiritualist. There is nothing he had not right to know: there is no weapon in the armoury of universal genius he did nottake into his hand, but with peremptory heed that he should not be for a moment prejudiced by his instruments. He lays a ray of light under every fact, and between himself and hisdearest property. From him nothing was hid, nothing with- holden. The lurking dæmons sat to him, and the saint whosaw the dæmons; and the metaphysical elements took form.Piety itself is no aim, but only a means, whereby, through purest inward peace, we may attain to highest culture." Andhis penetration of every secretof the fine arts will make Goethe still more statuesque. His affections help him, likewomen employed by Cicero to worm out the secret of con- spirators. Enmities he has none. Enemy of him you maybe-if so you shall teach him aught which your good- will cannot-were it only what experience will accrue from your ruin.Enemy and welcome, but enemy on high terms. He cannothate anybody; his time is worth too much. Temperamental66GOETHE; OR, THE WRITER. 393antagonisms may be suffered, but like feuds of emperors, whofight dignifiedly across kingdoms.His autobiography, under the title of " Poetry and Truth out of my Life," is the expression of the idea-now familiar to theworld through the German mind, but a novelty to England,Old and New, when that book appeared-that a man exists forculture; not for what he can accomplish, but for what can beaccomplished in him. The reaction of things on the man isthe only noteworthy result. An intellectual man can see him- self as a third person; therefore his faults and delusionsinterest him equally with his successes. Though he wishes toprosper in affairs, he wishes more to know the history anddestiny of man; whilst the clouds of egotists drifting about him are only interested in a low success.66This idea reigns in the Dichtung und Wahrheit, and directsthe selection of the incidents; and nowise the external importance of events, the rank of the personages, or the bulk of incomes. Of course, the book affords slender materials for what would be reckoned with us a 'Life of Goethe; "-fewdates; no correspondence; no details of offices or employments; no light on his marriage; and, a period of ten years,that should be the most active in his life , after his settlementat Weimar, is sunk in silence. Meantime, certain love- affairs,that came to nothing, as people say, have the strangest importance: he crowds us with details: -certain whimsicalopinions, cosmogonies, and religions of his own invention, and,especially his relations to remarkable minds, and to criticalepochs of thought:-these he magnifies. His " Daily and Yearly Journal," his " Italian Travels," his " Campaign in France," and the historical part of his " Theory of Colours,”have the same interest. In the last, he rapidly notices Kepler,Roger Bacon, Galileo, Newton, Voltaire, &c,; and the charmof this portion of the book consists in the simplest statementof the relation betwixt these grandees of European scientifichistory and himself; the mere drawing of the lines fromGoethe to Kepler, from Goethe to Bacon, from Goethe toNewton. The drawing of the line is for the time and person,a solution of the formidable problem, and gives pleasure when Iphigenia and Faust do not, without any cost of inventioncomparable to that of Iphigenia and Faust.This lawgiver of art is not an artist. Was it that he knewtoo much, that his sight was microscopic, and interfered withthe just perspective, the seeing of the whole? He is fragmentary; a writer of occasional poems, and of an encyclopædia of sentences. When he sits down to write a drama or a tale,he collects and sorts his observations from a hundred sides,and combines them into the body as fitly as he can. Agreat394 REPRESENTATIVE MEN.deal refuses to incorporate: this he adds loosely, as letters ofthe parties, leaves from their journals, or the like. A greatdeal still is left that will not find any place. This the bookbinder alone can give any cohesion to: and hence, notwithstanding the looseness of many of his works, we have volumesof detached paragraphs, aphorisms, xenien, &c.I suppose the worldly tone of his tales grew out of thecalculations of self- culture. It was the infirmity of an admir- able scholar. who loved the world out of gratitude; who knew where libraries, galleries, architecture, laboratories, savans, and leisure, were to be had, and who did not quite trust the com- pensations of poverty and nakedness. Socrates loved Athens;Montaigne, Paris; and Madame de Staël said, she was only vulnerable on that side (namely, of Paris) . It has its favour- able aspect. All the geniuses are usually so ill- assorted and sickly, that one is ever wishing them somewhere else. Weseldom see any body who is not uneasy or afraid to live.There is a slight blush of shame on the cheek of goed men and aspiring men, and a spice of caricature. But this man was entirely at home and happy in his century and the world.None was so fit to live, or more heartily enjoyed the game.In this aim of culture, which is the genius of his works, is their power. The idea of absolute, eternal truth, without reference to my own enlargement by it, is higher.surrender to the torrent of poetic inspiration is higher; but,compared with any motives on which books are written in England and America, this is very truth, and has the power to inspire which belongs to truth. Thus has he brought back to a book some of its ancient might and dignity.TheGoethe, coming into an over- civilized time and country, whenoriginal talent was oppressed under the load of books andmechanical auxiliaries, and the distracting variety of claims,taught men how to dispose of this mountainous miscellany,and make it subservient. I join Napoleon with him, as beingboth representatives of the impatience and reaction of nature against the morgue of conventions-two stern realists , whowith their scholars, have severally set the axe at the root of the tree of cant and seeming, for this time, and for all time.This cheerful labourer, with no external popularity or provocation, drawing his motive and his plan from his own breast,tasked himself with stints for a giant, and, without relaxationor rest, except by alternating his pursuits, worked on for eighty years with the steadiness of his first zeal.It is the last lesson of modern science, that the highestsimplicity of structure is produced, not by few elements, but by the highest complexity. Man is the most composite of all creatures: the wheel-insect, volvox alobator, is at the otherGOETHE; OR, THE WRITER. 395extreme. We shall learn to draw rents and revenues from theimmense patrimony of the old and the recent ages. Goethe teaches courage, and the equivalence of all times; that the disadvantages of any epoch exist only to the faint-hearted.Genius hovers with his sunshine and music close by the darkest and deafest eras. No mortgage, no attainder, willhold on men or hours. The world is young: the former greatmen call to us affectionately. We too must write Bibles, tounite again the heavens and the earthly world. The secret of genius is to suffer no fiction to exist for us; to realize all thatwe know; in the high refinement of modern life, in arts, insciences, in books, in men, to exact good faith, reality, and apurpose; and first, last, midst, and without end, to honourevery truth by use.396POEMS.THE SPHINX.THHSPwings are furled; HE Sphinx is drowsy,Her ear is heavy,She broods on the world."Who'll tell me my secret,The ages have kept?-I awaited the seer,While they slumbered and slept; -"The fate of the man-child;The meaning of man;Known fruit of the unknown;Dædalian plan;Out of sleeping a waking,Out of waking a sleep;Like death overtaking;Deep underneath deep?"Erect as a sunbeam,Upspringeth the palm;The elephant browses,Undaunted and calm;In beautiful motionThe thrush plies his wings:Kind leaves of his covert,Your silence he sings."The waves, unashamed,In difference sweet,Play glad with the breezes,Old playfellows meet;The journeying atoms,Primordial wholes,Firmly draw, firmly drive,By their animate poles."Sea, earth, air, sound, silence,Plant, quadruped, bird,By one music enchanted,One deity stirred, —THE SPHINX. 397Each the other adorning,Accompany still;Night veileth the morning,The vapour the hill."The babe by its mother Lies bathed in joy;Glide its hours uncounted, —The sun is its toy;Shines the peace of all being,Without cloud, in its eyes;And the sum of the worldIn soft miniature lies."But man crouches and blushes,Absconds and conceals;He creepeth and peepeth,He palters and steals;Infirm, melancholy,Jealous glancing around,An oaf, an accomplice,He poisons the ground."Out spoke the great mother,Beholding his fear; -At the sound of her accentsCold shuddered the sphere: --'Who has drugged my boy's cup?Who has mixed my boy's bread?Who, with sadness and madness,Has turned the man-child's head?' "I heard a poet answer,Aloud and cheerfully,"Say on, sweet Sphinx! thy dirgesAre pleasant songs to me.Deep love lieth underThese pictures of time;They fade in the light of Their meaning sublime."The fiend that man harriesIs love of the Best;Yawns the pit of the Dragon,Lit by rays from the Blest.The Lethe of NatureCan't trance him again,Whose soul sees the Perfect,Which his eyes seek in vain.398 POEMS."Profounder, profounder,Man's spirit must dive;To his aye-rolling orbit No goal will arrive;The heavens that now draw himWith sweetness untold,Once found, for new heavensHe spurneth the old."Pride ruined the angels,Their shame them restores;And the joy that is sweetest Lurks in stings of remorse.Have I a loverWho is noble and free?-I would he were noblerThan to love me."Eterne alternationNow follows, now flies;And under pain, pleasure, —Under pleasure, pain lies.Love works at the centre,Heart-heaving alway;Forth speed the strong pulsesTo the borders of day."Dull Sphinx, Jove keep thy five wits.Thy sight is growing blear;Rue, myrrh, and cummin for the SphinxHer muddy eyes to clear!"-The old Sphinx bit her thick lip, —66 Said, Who taught thee me to name?I am thy spirit, yoke- fellow,Of thine eye I am eyebeam."Thou art the unanswered question;Couldst see thy proper eye,Alway it asketh, asketh;And each answer is a lie.So take thy quest through nature,It through thousand natures ply;Ask on, thou clothed eternity;Time is the false reply."Uprose the merry Sphinx,And crouched no more in stone;She melted into purple cloud,She silvered in the moon;EACH AND ALL. 399She spired into a yellow flame;She flowered in blossoms red;She flowed into a foaming wave;She stood Monadnoc's head.Thorough a thousand voicesSpoke the universal dame:66" Who telleth one of my meanings,Is master of all I am.'ووEACH AND ALL.L ofthee fromthe hill -top looking down;ITTLE thinks, in the field, yon red- cloaked clown,The heifer that lows in the upland farm,Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm;The sexton, tolling his bell at noon,Deems not that great NapoleonStops his horse, and lists with delight,Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height;Nor knowest thou what argumentThy life to thy neighbour's creed has lent.All are needed by each one;Nothing is fair or good alone.I thought the sparrow's note from heaven,Singing at dawn on the alder bough;I brought him home, in his nest, at even;He sings the song, but it pleases not now,For I did not bring home the river and sky; —He sang to my ear, they sang to my eye.The delicate shells lay on the shore;The bubbles of the latest waveFresh pearls to their enamel gave;And the bellowing of the savage sea Greeted their safe escape to me.I wiped away the weeds and foam,I fetched my sea-born treasures home;But the poor, unsightly, noisome things Had left their beauty on the shore,With the sun, and the sand, and the wildThe lover watched his graceful maid,As ' mid the virgin train she strayed,Nor knew her beauty's best attire Was woven still by the snow- white choir.At last she came to his hermitage,uproar.Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage;--400 POEMS.The gay enchantment was undone,A gentle wife, but fairy none.Then I said, ' I covet truth;Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat;I leave it behind with the games of youth.'--As I spoke, beneath my feet The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath,Running over the club-moss burrs;I inhaled the violet's breath;Around me stood the oaks and firs;Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground;Over me soared the eternal sky,Full of light and of deity;Again I saw, again I heard,The rolling river, the morning bird; -Beauty through my senses stole;I yielded myself to the perfect whole.I'THE PROBLEM.LIKE a church; I like a cowl;I love.a prophet of the soul;And on my heart monastic aislesFall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles;Yet not for all his faith can see Would I that cowled churchman be.Why should the vest on him allure,Which I could not on me endure?Not from a vain or shallow thoughtHis awful Jove young Phidias brought;Never from lips of cunning fell The thrilling Delphic oracle;Out from the heart of nature rolledThe burdens of the Bible old;The litanies of nations came,Like the volcano's tongue of flame,Up from the burning care below, —The canticles of love and woe;The hand that rounded Peter's dome,And groined the aisles of Christian Rome,Wrought in a sad sincerity;Himself from God he could not free;He builded better than he knew; -The conscious stone to beauty grew.-THE PROBLEM. 401Know'st thou what wove yon woodbird's nestOf leaves, and feathers from her breast?Or how the fish outbuilt her shell,Painting with morn each annual cell?Or how the sacred pine-tree addsTo her old leaves new myriads?Such and so grew these holy piles,Whilst love and terror laid the tiles,Earth proudly wears the Parthenon,As the best gem upon her zone;And Morning opes with haste her lids,To gaze upon the Pyramids;O'er England's abbeys bends the sky,As on its friends, with kindred eye;For, out of Thought's interior sphere,These wonders rose to upper air;And Nature gladly gave them place,Adopted them into her race,And granted them an equal date With Andes and with Ararat.VOL. I.These temples grew as grows theArt might obey, but not surpass.The passive Master lent his handgrass;To the vast soul that o'er him planned;And the same power that reared the shrine,Bestrode the tribes that knelt within.Ever the fiery Pentecost Girds with one flame the countless host,Trances the heart through chanting choirs,And through the priest the mind inspires.The word unto the prophet spokenWas writ on tables yet unbroken;The word by seers or sibyls told,In groves of oak, or fanes of gold,Still floats upon the morning wind,Still whispers to the willing mind.One accent of the Holy Ghost The heedless world hath never lost.I know what say the fathers wise, —The Book itself before me lies,Old Chrysostom, best Augustine,And he who blent both in his line,The younger Golden Lips or mines,Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines.2 D402 POEMS.His words are music in my ear,I see his cowled portrait dear;And yet, for all his faith could see,I would not the good bishop be.TO RHEA.THEE, dear friend, a brother soothes,Not with Hatteries , but truths,Which tarnish not, but purify,To light which dims the morning's eye,I have come from the spring- woods,From the fragrant solitudes; -Listen what the poplar- treeAnd murmuring waters counselled me.If with love thy heart has burned;If thy love is unreturned;Hide thy grief within thy breast,Though it tear thee unexpressed;For when love has once departedFrom the eyes of the false-hearted,And one by one has torn off quite The bandages of purple light;Though thou wert the loveliestForm the soul had ever dressed,Thou shalt seem, in each reply,A vixen to his altered eye;Thy softest pleadings seem too bold,Thy praying lute will seem to scold;Though thou kept the straightest road,Yet thou errest far and broad.But thou shalt do as do the gods In their cloudless periods;For of this lore be thou sure,-Though thou forget, the gods, secure,Forget never their command,But make the statute of this land.As they lead, so follow all,Ever have done, ever shall.Warning to the blind and deaf,'Tis written on the iron leaf,Who drinks of Cupid's nectar cup Loveth downward, and not up;He who loves, of gods or men,Shall not by the same be loved again;THE VISIT. 403His sweetheart's idolatryFalls, in turn, a new degree.When a god is once beguiled By beauty of a mortal child,And by her radiant youth delighted,He is not fooled, but warily knoweth His love shall never be requited.And thus the wise Immortal doeth.-"Tis his study and delightTo bless that creature day and night;From all evils to defend her;In her lap to pour all splendour;To ransack earth for riches rare,And fetch her stars to deck her hair:He mixes music with her thoughts,And saddens her with heavenly doubts:All grace, all good his great heart knows,Profuse in love, the king bestows:Saying, ' Hearken! Earth, Sea, Air!This monument of my despairBuild I to the All- Good, All- Fair.Not for a private good,But I, from my beatitude,Albeit scorned as none was scorned,Adorn her as was none adorned.I make this maiden an ensampleTo Nature, through her kingdoms ample,Whereby to model newer races,Statelier forms, and fairer faces;To carry man to new degrees Of power, and of comeliness.These presents be the hostages Which I pawn for my release.See to thyself, O Universe!Thou art better, and not worse.'—And the god, having given all,Is freed for ever from his thrall.THE VISIT.ASKEST Devastator , Howoflong the day thou! shalt stay pKnow, each substance, and relation,Thorough nature's operation,Hath its unit, bound, and metre;And every new compound404 POEMS.Is some product and repeater,-Product of the earlier found.But the unit of the visit,The encounter of the wise, -Say, what other metre is itThan the meeting of the eyes?Nature poureth into nature Through the channels of that feature.Riding on the ray of sight,Fleeter far than whirlwinds go,Or for service, or delight,Hearts to hearts their meaning show,Sum their long experience,And import intelligence.Single look has drained the breast;Single moment years confessed.The duration of a glance Is the term of convenance,And, though thy rede be church or state,Frugal multiples of that.Speeding Saturn cannot halt;Linger, -thou shalt rue the fault;If Love his moment overstay,Hatred's swift repulsions play.TURIEL.I fell in the ancient periods Which the brooding soul surveys,Or ever the wild Time coined itselfInto calendar months and days.This was the lapse of Uriel,Which in Paradise befell.Once, among the Pleiads walking,SAID overheard the young gods talking;And the treason, too long pent,To his ears was evident.The young deities discussedLaws of form, and metre just,Orb, quintessence, and sunbeams,What subsisteth, and what seems.One, with low tones that decide,And doubt and reverend use defied,With a look that solved the sphere,And stirred the devils everywhere,THE WORLD- SOUL. 405Gave his sentiment divineAgainst the being of a line.'Line in nature is not found;Unit and universe are round;In vain produced, all rays return;Evil will bless , and ice will burn.'As Uriel spoke with piercing eye,A shudder ran around the sky;The stern old war-gods shook their heads;The seraphs frowned from myrtle- beds;Seemed to the holy festival The rash word boded ill to all;The balance-beam of Fate was bent;The bounds of good and ill were rent;Strong Hades could not keep his own,But all slid to confusion.A sad self-knowledge, withering, fellOn the beauty of Uriel;In heaven once eminent, the god Withdrew, that hour, into his cloud;Whether doomed to long gyrationIn the sea of generation,Or by knowledge grown too brightTo hit the nerve of feebler sight.Straightway, a forgetting wind Stole over the celestial kind,And their lips the secret kept,If in ashes the fire- seed slept.But now and then, truth- speaking thingsShamed the angels' veiling wings;And, shrilling from the solar course,Or from fruit of chemic force,Procession of a soul in matter,Or the speeding change cf water,Or out of the good of evil born,Came Uriel's voice of cherub scorn,And a blush tinged the upper sky,And the gods shook, they knew not why.THE WORLD- SOUL.HANKS to the morning light,Thanksto the foaming sea,To the uplands of New-Hampshire,To the green-haired forest free.406 POEMS.Thanks to each man of courage,To the maids of holy mind;To the boy with his games undaunted Who never looks behind.Cities of proud hotels,Houses of rich and great;Vice nestles in your chambers,Beneath your roofs of slate.It cannot conquer folly,Time-and- space-conquering steam,And the light-outspeeding telegraphBears nothing on its beam.The politics are base;The letters do not cheer;And ' tis far in the deeps of history.The voice that speaketh clear.Trade and the streets ensnare us,Our bodies are weak and worn;We plot and corrupt each other,And we despoil the unborn.Yet there in the parlour sitsSome figure of noble guise, -- Our angel, in a stranger's form,Or woman's pleading eyes;Or only a flashing sunbeam In at the window-pane;Or Music pours on mortals Its beautiful disdain.The inevitable morningFinds them who in cellars be;And be sure the all-loving Nature Will smile in a factory.Yon ridge of purple landscape,Yon sky between the walls,Hold all the hidden wonders,In scanty intervals.Alas! the Sprite that haunts us Deceives our rash desire;It whispers of the glorious gods,And leaves us in the mire.We cannot learn the cipherThat's writ upon our cell;Stars help us by a mystery Which we could never spell.THE WORLD- SOUL. 407If but one hero knew it,The world would blush in flame;The sage, till he hit the secret;Would hang his head for shame But our brothers have not read it,Not one has found the key;And henceforth we are comforted,-We are but such as they.Still, still the secret presses;The nearing clouds draw down;The crimson morning flames intoThe fopperies of the town.Within, without the idle earth,Stars weave eternal rings;The sun himself shines heartily,And shares the joy he brings.And what if Trade sow citiesLike shells along the shore,And thatch with towns the prairie broad,With railways ironed o'er?-They are but sailing foam-bellsAlong Thought's causing stream,And take their shape and sun- colour From him that sends the dream.For Destiny does not likeTo yield to men the helm;And shoots his thought, by hidden nerves,Throughout the solid realm.The patient Dæmon sits,With roses and a shroud;He has his way, and deals his gifts,—But ours is not allowed.He is no churl nor trifler,And his viceroy is none, -Love-without- weakness, -Of Genius sire and son.And his will is not thwarted;The seeds of land and seaAre the atoms of his body bright,And his behest obey.He serveth the servant,The brave he loves amain;He kills the cripple and the sick,And straight begins again;408 POEMS.For gods delight in gods,And thrust the weak aside;To him who scorns their charities,Their arms fly open wide.When the old world is sterile,And the ages are effete,He will from wrecks and sedimentThe fairer world complete.He forbids to despair;His cheeks mantle with mirth;And the unimagined good of men Is yeaning at the birth.Spring still makes spring in the mind,When sixty years are told;Love wakes anew this throbbing heart,And we are never old.Over the winter glaciers,I see the summer glow,And, through the wild- piled snowdrift,The warm rosebuds below.ALPHONSO OF CASTILE.I. ALPHONSO, live and learn,Seeing Nature go astern.Things deteriorate in kind;Lemons run to leaves and rind;Meagre crop of figs and limes;Shorter days and harder times.Flowering April cools and dies In the insufficient skies.Imps, at high midsummer, blotHalf the sun's disk with a spot:"Twill not now avail to tanOrange cheek or skin of man.Roses bleach, the goats are dry,Lisbon quakes, the people cry.Yon pale, scrawny fisher fools,Gaunt as bitterns in the pools,Are no brothers of my blood; -They discredit Adamhood.Eyes of gods! ye must have seen,O'er your ramparts as ye lean,ALPHONSO OF CASTILE. 409•The general debility;Of genius the sterility;Mighty projects countermanded;Rash ambition, brokenhanded;Puny man and scentless rose Tormenting Pan to double the dose.Rebuild or ruin: either fillOf vital force the wasted rill,Or tumble all again in heapTo weltering chaos and to sleep .Say, Seigniors, are the old Niles dry,Which fed the veins of earth and sky,That mortals miss the loyal heats,Which drove them erst to social feats;Now, to a savage selfness grown,Think nature barely serves for one;With science poorly mask their hurt,And vex the gods with question pert,Immensely curious whether you Still are rulers, or mildew?Masters, I'm in pain with you;Masters, I'll be plain with you;.In my palace of Castile,I, a king, for kings can feel.There my thoughts the matter roll,And solve and oft resolve the whole.And, for I'm styled Alphonse the Wise,Ye shall not fail for sound advice.Before ye want a drop of rain,Hear the sentiment of Spain.You have tried famine: no more try it,Ply us now with a full diet;Teach your pupils now with plenty,For one sun supply us twenty.I have thought it thoroughly over, -State of hermit, state of lover;We must have society,We cannot spare variety.Hear you, then, celestial fellows!Fits not to be over zealous;Steads not to work on the clean jump,Nor wine nor brains perpetual pump.Men and gods are too extense;Could you slacken and condense?Your rank overgrowths reduce Till your kinds abound with juice?410 POEMS.Earth, crowded, cries, ' Too many men!'My counsel is , kill nine in ten,And bestow the shares of allOn the remnant decimal.Add their nine lives to this cat;Stuff their nine brains in his hat;Make his frame and forces squareWith the labours he must dare;Thatch his flesh, and even his years With the marble which he rears.There, growing slowly old at ease,No faster than his planted trees,He may, by warrant of his age,In schemes of broader scope engage.So shall ye have a man of the sphere,Fit to grace the solar year.MITHRIDATES.CANNOT spare water or wine,Tobacco-leaf, or poppy, or rose;From the earth- poles to the line,All between that works or grows,Every thing is kin of mine.Give me agates for my meat;Give me cantharids to eat;From air and ocean bring me foods,From all zones and altitudes; -From all natures, sharp and slimy,Salt and basalt, wild and tame:Tree and lichen, ape, sea-lion,Bird, and reptile, be my game.,Ivy for my fillet band;Blinding dog- wood in my hand;Hemlock for my sherbet cull me,And the prussic juice to lull me;Swing mein the upas boughs,Vampire-fanned, when I carouse.Too long shut in strait and few,Thinly dieted on dew,I will use the world, and sift it,To a thousand humours shift it,TO J. W.- FATE. 411As you spin a cherry.O doleful ghosts, and goblins merry!O all you virtues, methods, mights,Means, appliances, delights,Reputed wrongs and braggart rights,Smug routine, and things allowed,Minorities, things under cloud!Hither! take me, use me, fill me,Vein and artery, though ye kill me!God! I will not be an owl,But sun me in the Capitol.TO J. W.SETHear not why whatfwine and roses say;The mountain chase, the summer waves,The crowded town, thy feet may well delay.Set not thy foot on graves;Nor seek to unwind the shroudWhich charitable TimeAnd Nature have allowedTo wrap the errors of a sage sublime.Set not thy foot on graves:Care not to strip the dead Of his sad ornament,His myrrh, and wine, and rings,His sheet of lead,And trophies buried:Go, get them where he earned them when alive;As resolutely dig or dive.Life is too short to wasteIn critic peep or cynic bark,Quarrel or reprimand:"Twill soon be dark;Up! mind thine own aim, andGod speed the mark!FATE.THAT you are fair or wise is vain,Or strong, or rich, or generous;You must have also the untaught strainThat sheds beauty on the rose.412 POEMS.There's a melody born of melody,Which melts the world into a seaToil could never compass it;Art its height could never hit;It came never out of wit;But a music music- bornWell may Jove and Juno scorn.Thy beauty, if it lack the fire Which drives me mad with sweet desire,What boots it? what the soldier's mail,Unless he conquer and prevail?What all the goods thy pride which lift,If thou pine for another's gift?Alas! that one is born in blight,Victim of perpetual slight:When thou lookest on his face,Thy heart saith, Brother, go thy ways!None shall ask thee what thou doest,Or care a rush for what thou knowest,Or listen when thou repliest,Or remember where thou liest,Or how thy supper is sodden; 'And another is bornTo make the sun forgotten.Surely he carries a talisman Under his tongue;Broad his shoulders are and strong;And his eye is scornful,Threatening, and young.I hold it of little matterWhether your jewel be of pure water,A rose diamond or a white,But whether it dazzle me with light.I care not how you are dressed,In the coarsest or in the best;Nor whether your name is base or brave;Nor for the fashion of your behaviour;But whether you charm me,Bid my bread feed and my fire warm me,And dress up Nature in your favour,One thing is for ever good;That one thing is Success, —Dear to the Eumenides,And to all the heavenly brood.Who bides at home, nor looks abroad,Carries the eagles, and masters the sword.413GUY.MORTAL mixed of middle clay Attempered to the night and day,Interchangeable with things,Needs no amulets nor rings.Guy possessed the talismanThat all things from him began;And as, of old, PolycratesChained the sunshine and the breeze,So did Guy betimes discoverFortune was his guard and lover;In strange junctures, felt, with awe,His own symmetry with law;That no mixture could withstandThe virtue of his lucky hand.He gold or jewel could not lose,Nor not receive his ample dues.In the street, if he turned round,His eye the eye ' twas seeking found.It seemed his Genius discreetWorked on the Maker's own receipt,And made each tide and elementStewards of stipend and of rent;So that the common waters fellAs costly wine into his well.He had so sped his wise affairsThat he caught Nature in his snares.Early or late, the falling rain Arrived in time to swell his grain;Stream could not so perversely windBut corn of Guy's was there to grind.The siroc found it on its way,To speed his sails, to dry his hay;And the world's sun seemed to rise,To drudge all day for Guy the wise.In his rich nurseries, timely skillStrong crab with nobler blood did fill;The zephyr in his garden rolledFrom plum-trees vegetable gold;And all the hours of the year With their own harvest honoured were.There was no frost but welcome came,Nor freshet, nor midsummer flame.Belonged to wind and world the toilAnd venture, and to Guy the oil.414 POEMS.TACT.WHATboots it, thy virtue, Whatprofit thy parts,While one thing thou lackest, —The art of all arts?The only credentials,Passport to success;Opens castle and parlour, -Address, man, Address.The maiden in dangerWas saved by the swain;His stout arm restored herTo Broadway again.The maid would reward him, —Gay company come,-They laugh, she laughs with them He is moonstruck and dumb.This clinches the bargain;Sails out of the bay;Gets the vote in the senate,Spite of Webster and Clay.Has for genius no mercy,For speeches no heed;It lurks in the eyebeam,It leaps to its deed.Church, market, and tavern,Bed and board, it will sway.It has no to- morrow;It ends with to-day.HAMATREYA.MINOTT, Lee, Willard, Hosmer, Meriam, Flint, Possessed the land which rendered to their toilHay, corn, roots, hemp, flax, apples, wool, and wood.Each of these landlords walked amidst his farm,Saying, 'Tis mine, my children's, and my name's:How sweet the west wind sounds in my own trees!Howgraceful climb those shadows on my hill!I fancy these pure waters and the flagsEARTH- SONG 415Know me, as does my dog: we sympathize;And, I affirm , my actions smack of the soil.'Where are these men? Asleep beneath their grounds,And strangers, fond as they, their furrows plough.Earth laughs in flowers, to see her boastful boys Earth-proud, proud of the earth which is not theirs;Who steer the plough, but cannot steer their feetClear of the grave.They added ridge to valley, brook to pond,And sighed for all that bounded their domain.This suits me for a pasture; that's my park;We must have clay, lime, gravel, granite- ledge,And misty lowland, where to go for peat.The land is well, -lies fairly to the south."Tis good, when you have crossed the sea and back,To find the sitfast acres where you left them.'Ah! the hot owner sees not Death, who addsHim to his land, a lump of mould the more.Hear what the Earth says:-EARTH- SONG.TINE and yours;M Mine, notyours.Earth endures;Stars abideShine down in the old sea;Old are the shores;But where are old men?I who have seen much,Such have I never seen.'The lawyer's deed Ran sure,In tail,To them, and to their heirsWho shall succeed,Without fail,For evermore.'Here is the land,Shaggy with wood,With its old valley,Mound, and flood.But the heritors?Fled like the flood's foam, -The lawyer, and the laws,And the kingdom,Clean swept herefrom.416 POEMS."' They called me theirs,Who so controlled me;Yet every oneWished to stay, and is gone.How am I theirs,If they cannot hold me,But I hold them?'When I heard the Earth- song,I was no longer brave;My avarice cooled Like lust in the chill of the grave.GOOD-BYE.GOODThou- BYEart,not proudmyworld friend,, I'm andgoing I'm nothomethine. .Long through thy weary crowds I roam;A river-ark on the ocean brine,Long I've been tossed like the driven foam;But now, proud world! I'm going home.Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face;To Grandeur with his wise grimace;To upstart Wealth's averted eye;To supple Office low and high;To crowded halls, to court and street;To frozen hearts and hasting feet;To those who go, and those who come;Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home.I'm going to my own hearth- stone,Bosomed in yon green hills alone, —A secret nook in a pleasant land,Whose groves the frolic fairies planned;Where arches green, the livelong day,Echo the blackbird's roundelay,And vulgar feet have never trod,A spot that is sacred to thought and God.O, when I am safe in my sylvan home,I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome;And when I am stretched beneath the pines,Where the evening star so holy shines,I laugh at the lore and the pride of man,At the sophist schools, and the learned clan;For what are they all, in their high conceit,When man in the bush with God may meet?417THE RHODORA:ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER?In the freshRhodora inthewoods,Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,To please the desert and the sluggish brook.The purple petals, fallen in the pool,N May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,Made the black water with their beauty gay;Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,And court the flower that cheapens his array.Rhodora! if the sages ask thee whyThis charm is wasted on the earth and sky,Tell them, dear, that, if eyes were made for seeing,Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!I never thought to ask, I never knew;But, in my simple ignorance, suppose The self- same Power that brought me there, brought you.VOL. I.THE HUMBLE-BEE.BURLY Where, dozing humble- bee, thou art is clime for me.Let them sail for Porto Rique,Far-off heats through seas to seek;I will follow thee alone,Thou animated torrid- zone!Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer,Let me chase thy waving lines:Keep me nearer, me thy hearer,Singing over shrubs and vines.Insect lover of the sun,Joy of thy dominion!Sailor of the atmosphere;Swimmer through the waves of air;Voyager of light and noon;Epicurean of June;Wait, I prithee, till I come Within earshot of thy hum,-All without is martyrdom.2 E418 POEMS.1When the south wind, in May days,With a net of shining haze Silvers the horizon wall,And, with softness touching all,Tints the human countenanceWith a colour of romance,And, infusing subtle heats,Turns the sod to violets,Thou, in sunny solitudes,Rover of the underwoods,The green silence dost displaceWith thy mellow, breezy bass.Hot midsummer's petted crone,Sweet to me thy drowsy tone.Tells of countless sunny hours,Long days, and solid banks of flowersOf gulfs of sweetness without bound In Indian wildernesses found;Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure,Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure.Aught unsavoury or uncleanHath my insect never seen;But violets and bilberry bells,Maple-sap, and daffodels,Grass with green flag half- mast high,Succory to match the sky,Columbine with horn of honey,Scented fern, and agrimony,Clover, catchfly, adder's tongue,And brier-roses, dwelt among;All beside was unknown waste,All was picture as he passed.Wiser far than human seer,Yellow-breeched philosopher!Seeing only what is fair,Sipping only what is sweet,Thou dost mock at fate and care,Leave the chaff and take the wheat.When the fierce north-western blastCools sea and land so far and fast,Thou already slumberest deep;Woe and want thou canst outsleep;Want and woe, which torture us,Thy sleep makes ridiculous.419BERRYING.[AY be true what I had heard, -MEarth's a howling wilderness,Truculent with fraud and force,'Said I, strolling through the pastures,And along the river- side.Caught among the blackberry vines,Feeding on the Ethiops sweet,Pleasant fancies overtook me.I said, ' What influence me preferred,Elect, to dreams thus beautiful?'The vines replied, ' And didst thou deem No wisdom from our berries went?'THE SNOW- STORM.ANNOUNCED Arrives the snow by all, and the, trumpets driving o'er ofthe the skyd fields,Seems nowhere to alight: the whited airHides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,And veils the farm- house at the garden's end.The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feetDelayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sitAround the radiant fireplace, enclosedIn a tumultuous privacy of storm.Come see the north wind's masonry.Out of an unseen quarry evermoreFurnished with tile, the fierce artificerCurves his white bastions with projected roofRound every windward stake, or tree, or door.Speeding, the myriad- handed, his wild workSo fanciful, so savage, nought cares he For number or proportion. Mockingly,On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,Maugre the farmer's sighs; and, at the gate,Atapering turret overtops the work.And when his hours are numbered, and the worldIs all his own, retiring, as he were not,Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,Built in an age, the mad wind's night- work,The frolic architecture of the snow.420 POEMS.WOODNOTES.-I.OR this present, hard Fo Is the fortune of the bard,Born out of time;All his accomplishment,From Nature's utmost treasure spent Booteth not him.When the pine tosses its cones To the song of its waterfall tones,He speeds to the woodland walks,To birds and trees he talks:Cæsar of his leafy Rome,There the poet is at home.He goes to the river- side, —Not hook nor line hath he;He stands in the meadows wide,-Nor gun nor scythe to see;With none has he to do,And none seek him,Nor men below,Nor spirits dim.Sure some god his eye enchants:What he knows, nobody wants.In the wood he travels glad,Without better fortune had,Melancholy without bad.Planter of celestial plants,What he knows, nobody wants;What he knows, he hides, not vaunts.Knowledge this man prizes best Seems fantastic to the rest:Pondering shadows, colours, clouds,Grass-buds, and caterpillar- shrouds,Boughs on which the wild bees settle,Tints that spot the violet's petal,Why Nature loves the number five,And why the star-form she repeats:Lover of all things alive,Wonderer at all he meets,Wonderer chiefly at himself,-Who can tell him what he is?Or how meet in human elfComing and past eternities?WOODNOTES. 421And such 1 knew, a forest seer,A minstrel of the natural year,Foreteller of the vernal ides,Wise harbinger of spheres and tides,A lover true, who knew by heartEach joy the mountain dales impart;It seemed that Nature could not raiseA plant in any secret place,In quaking bog, on snowy hill,Beneath the grass that shades the rill,Under the snow, beneath the rocks,In damp fields known to bird and fox,But he would come in the very hourIt opened in its virgin bower,As if a sunbeam showed the place,And tell its long descended race.It seemed as if the breezes brought him;It seemed as if the sparrows taught him;As if by secret sight he knew Where, in far fields, the orchis grew.Many haps fall in the fieldSeldom seen by wishful eyes,But all her shows did Nature yield,To please and win this pilgrim wise.He saw the partridge drum in the woods;He heard the woodco*ck's evening hymn;He found the tawny thrush's broods;And the shy hawk did wait for him;What others did at distance hear,And guessed within the thicket's gloom,Was showed to this philosopher,And at his bidding seemed to come.In unploughed Maine he sought the lumberers' gang Where from a hundred lakes young rivers sprang;He trode the unplanted forest floor, whereonThe all- seeing sun for ages hath not shone;Where feeds the moose, and walks the surly bear,And up the tall mast runs the woodpecker.He saw beneath dim aisles, in odorous beds,The slight Linnæa hang its twin- born heads,And blessed the monument of the man of flowers,Which breathes his sweet fame through the northern bowers.He heard, when in the grove, at intervals,With sudden roar the aged pine-tree falls, -One crash, the death-hymn of the perfect tree,Declares the close of its green century.422 POEMS.Lowlies the plant to whose creation went Sweet influence from every element;Whose living towers the years conspired to build,Whose giddy top the morning loved to gild.Through these green tents, by eldest Nature dressed,He roamed, content alike with man and beast.Where darkness found him he lay glad at night;There the red morning touched him with its light.Three moons his great heart him a hermit made,So long he roved at will the boundless shade.The timid it concerns to ask their way,And fear what foe in caves and swamps can stray,To make no step until the event is known,And ills to come as evils past bemoan.Not so the wise; no coward watch he keepsTo spy what danger on his pathway creeps;Go where he will, the wise man is at home,His hearth the earth, —his hall the azure dome;Where his clear spirit leads him, there's his road,By God's own light illumined and foreshowed."Twas one of the charmed days,When the genius of God doth flow,The wind may alter twenty ways,Atempest cannot blow;It may blow north, it still is warm;Or south, it still is clear;Or east, it smells like a clover-farm;Or west, no thunder fear.The musing peasant lowly great Beside the forest water sate;The rope-like pine roots crosswise grownComposed the network of his throne;The wide lake, edged with sand and grass,Was burnished to a floor of glass,Painted with shadows green and proud Of the tree and of the cloud.He was the heart of all the scene;On him the sun looked more serene;To hill and cloud his face was known, -It seemed the likeness of their own;They knew by secret sympathy The public child of earth and sky.' You ask,' he said, ' what guide Me through trackless thickets led,Through thick-stemmed woodlands rough and wide?I found the water's bed.WOODNOTES. 423The watercourses were my guide;I travelled grateful by their side,Or through their channel dry;They led me through the thicket damp,Through brake and fern, the beavers' camp,Through beds of granite cut my road,And their resistless friendship showed;The falling waters led me,The foodful waters fed me,And brought me to the lowest land,Unerring to the ocean sand.The moss upon the forest barkWas pole- star when the night was dark,The purple berries in the wood Supplied me necessary food;For Nature ever faithful isTo such as trust her faithfulness.When the forest shall mislead me,When the night and morning lie,When sea and land refuse to feed me,"Twill be time enough to die;Then will yet my mother yieldA pillow in her greenest field,Nor the June flowers scorn to coverThe clay of their departed lover.'WOODNOTES.- II.As sunbeams stream through liberal space,And nothing jostle or displace,So waved the pine-tree through my thought,Andfanned the dreams it never brought.WHETHER is better the gift or the donor?WE Come to me,'Quoth the pine-tree,I amthe giver of honour.My garden is the cloven rock,And my manure the snow;And drifting sand-heaps feed my stock,In summer's scorching glow.Ancient or curious,Who knoweth aught of us?Old as Jove,Old as Love,424 POEMS.Who of meTells the pedigree?Only the mountains old,Only the waters cold,Only moon and starMy coevals are.Ere the first fowl sungMy relenting boughs among,Ere Adam wived,Ere Adam lived,Ere the duck dived,Ere the bees hived,Ere the lion roared,Ere the eagle soared,Light and heat, land and sea,Spake unto the oldest tree.Glad in the sweet and secret aidWhich matter unto matter paid,The water flowed, the breezes fanned,The tree confined the roving sand,The sunbeam gave me to the sight,The tree adorned the formless light,And once againO'er the grave of menWe shall talk to each other againOf the old age behind,Of the time out of mind,Which shall come again.''Whether is better the gift or the donor?Come to me,'Quoth the pine-tree,' I am the giver of honour.He is great who can live by me.The rough and bearded forester Is better than the lord;God fills the scrip and canister,Sin piles the loaded board.The lord is the peasant that was,The peasant the lord that shall be;The lord is hay, the peasant grass,One dry, and one the living tree.Genius with my boughs shall flourish,Want and cold our roots shall nourish.Who liveth by the ragged pine Foundeth a heroic line;WOODNOTES. 425Who liveth in the palace hall Waneth fast and spendeth all.He goes to my savage haunts,With his chariot and his care;My twilight realm he disenchants,And finds his prison there."What prizes the town and the tower?Only what the pine-tree yields;Sinew that subdued the fields;The wild-eyed boy, who in the woodsChants his hymn to hills and floods,Whom the city's poisoning spleenMade not pale, or fat, or lean;Whom the rain and the wind purgeth,Whom the dawn and the day- star urgeth,In whose cheek the rose-leaf blusheth,In whose feet the lion rusheth,Iron arms, and iron mould,That know not fear, fatigue, or cold.I give my rafters to his boat,My billets to his boiler's throat;And I will swim the ancient sea,To float my child to victory,And grant to dwellers with the pine Dominion o'er the palm and vine.Westward I ope the forest gates,The train along the railroad skates;It leaves the land behind like ages past,The foreland flows to it in river fast;Missouri I have made a mart,I teach Iowa Saxon art.Who leaves the pine-tree, leaves his friend,Unnerves his strength, invites his end.Cut a bough from my parent stem,And dip it in thy porcelain vase;A little while each russet gemWill swell and rise with wonted grace;But when it seeks enlarged supplies,The orphan of the forest dies.Whoso walketh in solitude,And inhabiteth the wood,Choosing light, wave, rock, and bird,Before the money- loving herd,Into that forester shall pass,From these companions, power and grace.Clean shall he be, without, within,From the old adhering sin.426 POEMS.Love shall he, but not adulateThe all-fair, the all- embracing Fate;All ill dissolving in the light Of his triumphant piercing sight.Not vain, sour, nor frivolous;Not mad, athirst, nor garrulous;Grave, chaste, contented, though retired,And of all other men desired.On him the light of star and moonShall fall with purer radiance down;All constellations of the sky Shed their virtue through his eye.Him Nature giveth for defence His formidable innocence;The mountain sap, the shells, the sea,All spheres, all stones, his helpers be;He shall never be old;Nor his fate shall be foretold;He shall see the speeding year,Without wailing, without fear;He shall be happy in his love,Like to like shall joyful prove;He shall be happy whilst he woos,Muse-born, a daughter of the Muse.But if with gold she bind her hair,And deck her breast with diamond,Take off thine eyes, thy heart forbear,Though thou lie alone on the ground.The robe of silk in which she shines,It was woven of many sins;And the shredsWhich she shedsIn the wearing of the same,Shall be grief on grief,And shame on shame.'Heed the old oracles,Ponder my spells;Song wakes in my pinnacles When the wind swells.Soundeth the prophetic wind,The shadows shake on the rock behind,And the countless leaves of the pine are strings Tuned to the lay the wood-god sings.Hearken! Hearken!If thou wouldst know the mystic song Chanted when the sphere was young.WOODNOTES. 427Aloft, abroad, the pæan swells;O wise man! hear'st thou half it tells?O wise man! hear'st thou the least part?"Tis the chronicle of art.To the open ear it singsSweet the genesis of things,Of tendency through endless ages,Of star-dust, and star-pilgrimages,Of rounded worlds, of space and time,Of the old flood's subsiding slime,Of chemic matter, force, and form,Of poles and powers, cold, wet, and warm:The rushing metamorphosis,Dissolving all that fixture is,Melts things that be to things that seem,And solid nature to a dream.O, listen to the undersong- The ever old, the ever young;And, far within those cadent pauses,The chorus of the ancient Causes!Delights the dreadful Destiny To fling his voice into the tree,And shock thy weak ear with a noteBreathed from the everlasting throat.In music he repeats the pang Whence the fair flock of Nature sprang.O mortal! thy ears are stones;These echoes are laden with tonesWhich only the pure can hear;Thou canst not catch what they reciteOf Fate and Will, of Want and Right,Of man to come, of human life,Of Death, and Fortune, Growth, and Strife.'Once again the pine-tree sung:-' Speak not thy speech my boughs among;Put off thy years, wash in the breeze;My hours are peaceful centuries.Talk no more with feeble tongue;No more the fool of space and time,Come weave with mine a nobler rhyme.Only thy AmericansCan read thy line, can meet thy glance,But the runes that I rehearseUnderstand the universe;The least breath my boughs which tossedBrings again the Pentecost,428 POEMS.To every soul it soundeth clearIn a voice of solemn cheer,-"Am I not thine? Are not these thine?'And they reply, " For ever mine!".My branches speak Italian,English, German, Basque, Castilian,Mountain speech to Highlanders,Ocean tongues to Islanders,To Fin, and Lap, and swart Malay,To each his bosom-secret say.' Come learn with me the fatal songWhich knits the world in music strong,Whereto every bosom dances,Kindled with courageous fancies.Come lift thine eyes to lofty rhymes,Of things with things, of times with times,Primal chimes of sun and shade,Of sound and echo, man and maid,The land reflected in the flood,Body with shadow still pursued.For nature beats in perfect tune,And rounds with rhyme her every rune,Whether she work in land or sea,Or hide underground her alchemy.Thou canst not wave thy staff in air,Or dip thy paddle in the lake,But it carves the bow of beauty there,And the ripples in rhymes the oar forsake.The wood is wiser far than thou;The wood and wave each other know.Not unrelated, unaffied,But to each thought and thing allied,Is perfect Nature's every part,Rooted in the mighty Heart.But thou, poor child! unbound, unrhymed,Whence camest thou, misplaced, mistimed?Whence, O thou orphan and defrauded?Is thy land peeled, thy realm marauded?Who thee divorced, deceived, and left?Thee of thy faith who hath bereft,And torn the ensigns from thy brow,And sunk the immortal eye so low?Thy cheek too white, thy form too slender,Thy gait too slow, thy habits tenderFor royal man;-they thee confess An exile from the wilderness, -WOODNOTES. 429The hills where health with health agrees,And the wise soul expels disease.Hark! in thy ear I will tell the signBy which thy hurt thou may'st divine.When thou shalt climb the mountain cliff,Or see the wide shore from thy skiff,To thee the horizon shall expressOnly emptiness and emptiness;There lives no man of Nature's worthIn the circle of the earth;And to thine eye the vast skies fall,Dire and satirical,On clucking hens, and prating fools,On thieves, on drudges, and on dolls.And thou shalt say to the Most High,"Godhead! all this astronomy,And fate, and practice, and invention,Strong art, and beautiful pretension,This radiant pomp of sun and star,Throes that were, and worlds that are,Behold! were in vain and in vain; -It cannot be, -I will look again;Surely now will the curtain rise,And earth's fit tenant me surprise; -But the curtain doth not rise,And Nature has miscarried wholly Into failure, into folly."'Alas! thine is the bankruptcy,Blessed Nature so to see.

Come, lay thee in my soothing shade,And heal the hurts which sin has made.I will teach the bright parableOlder than time,Things undeclarable,Visions sublime.I see thee in the crowd alone;I will be thy companion.Quit thy friends as the dead in doom,And build to them a final tomb;Let the starred shade that nightly falls Still celebrate their funerals,And the bell of beetle and of bee Knell their melodious memory.Behind thee leave thy merchandise,Thy churches, and thy charities;430 POEMS.And leave thy peaco*ck wit behind;Enough for thee the primal mind That flows in streams, that breathes in windLeave all thy pedant lore apart;God hid the whole world in thy heart.Love shuns the sage, the child it crowns,And gives them all who all renounce.The rain comes when the wind calls;The river knows the way to the sea;Without a pilot it runs and falls,Blessing all lands with its charity;The sea tosses and foams to findIts way up to the cloud and wind;The shadow sits close to the flying ball;The date fails not on the palm-tree tall;And thou,-go burn thy wormy pages,-Shalt outsee seers, and outwit sages.Oft didst thou thread the woods in vainTo find what bird had piped the strain; -Seek not, and the little eremiteFlies gaily forth and sings in sight.'Hearken once more!I will tell thee the mundane lore.Older am I than thy numbers wot,Change I may, but I pass not.Hitherto all things fast abide,And anchored in the tempest ride.Trenchant time behoves to hurryAll to yean and all to bury:All the forms are fugitive,But the substances survive.Ever fresh the broad creation,A divine improvisation,From the heart of God proceeds,Asingle will, a million deeds.Once slept the world an egg of stone,And pulse, and sound, and light was none;And God said, "Throb!" and there was motion,And the vast mass became vast ocean.Onward and on, the eternal Pan,Who layeth the world's incessant plan,Halteth never in one shape,But for ever doth escape,Like wave or flame, into new formsOf gem, and air, of plants, and worms.WOODNOTES. 431I, that to-day am a pine,Yesterday was a bundle of grass.He is free and libertine,Pouring of his power the wineTo every age, to every race;Unto every race and ageHe emptieth the beverage;Unto each, and unto all,Maker and original.The world is the ring of his spells,And the play of his miracles.As he giveth to all to drink,Thus or thus they are and think.He giveth little or giveth much,To make them several or such.With one drop sheds form and feature;With the next a special nature;The third adds heat's indulgent spark;The fourth gives light which eats the dark;Into the fifth himself he flings,And conscious Law is King of kings.Pleaseth him, the Eternal Child,To play his sweet will, glad and wild;As the bee through the garden ranges,From world to world the godhead changes;As the sheep go feeding in the waste,From form to form he maketh haste;This vault which glows immense with light Is the inn where he lodges for a night.What recks such Traveller if the bowersWhich bloom and fade like meadow flowers,A bunch of fragrant lilies be,Or the stars of eternity?Alike to him the better, the worse, -The glowing angel, the outcast corse.Thou metest him by centuries,And lo! he passes like the breeze;Thou seek'st in globe and galaxy,He hides in pure transparency;Thou askest in fountains and in fires,He is the essence that inquires.He is the axis of the star;He is the sparkle of the spar;He is the heart of every creature;He is the meaning of each feature;And his mind is the sky,Than all it holds more deep, more high.'432 POEMS.MONADNOC.THTHOUSAND minstrels woke within me,' Our music's in the hills; '-Gayest pictures rose to win me,Leopard-coloured rills.'Up!-If thou knew'st who callsTo twilight parks of beech and pine,High over the river intervals,Above the ploughman's highest line,Over the owner's farthest walls!Up! where the airy citadelO'erlooks the surging landscape's swell!Let not unto the stones the DayHer lily and rose, her sea and land display.Read the celestial sign!Lo! the south answers to the north;Bookworm, break this sloth urbane;Agreater spirit bids thee forthThan the grey dreams which thee detain.Mark how the climbing Oreads Beckon thee to their arcades!Youth, for a moment free as they,Teach thy feet to feel the ground,Ere yet arrives the wintry dayWhen Time thy feet has bound,Take the bounty of thy birth,Taste the lordship of the earth .'I heard, and I obeyed- Assured that he who made the claim,Well known, but loving not a name,Was not to be gainsaid.Ere yet the summoning voice was still,I turned to Cheshire's haughty hill.From the fixed cone the cloud- rack flowedLike ample banner flung abroad To all the dwellers in the plainsRound about, a hundred miles,With salutation to the sea, and to the bordering isles.In his own loom's garment dressed,Byhis proper bounty blessed,Fast abides this constant giver,Pouring many a cheerful river!MONADNOC. 433To far eyes, an aërial isleUnploughed, which finer spirits pile,Which morn and crimson evening paintFor bard, for lover, and for saint;The people's pride, the country's core,Inspirer, prophet evermore;Pillar which God aloft had setSo that men might it not forget;It should be their life's ornament,And mix itself with each event;Gauge and calendar and dial,Weatherglass and chemic phial,Garden of berries, perch of birds,Pasture of pool-haunting herds.Graced by each change of sum untold,Earth-baking heat, stone-cleaving cold.The Titan heeds his sky-affairs,Rich rents and wide alliance shares;Mysteries of colour daily laidBythe sun in light and shade;And sweet varieties of chance,And the mystic seasons' dance;And thief- like step of liberal hours Thawing snow-drift into flowers.O, wondrous craft of plant and stoneBy eldest science wrought and shown!Happy,' I said, ' whose home is here!Fair fortunes to the mountaineer!Boon Nature to his poorest shedHas royal pleasure-grounds outspread.'Intent, I searched the region round,And in low hut my monarch found:-Wo is me for my hope's downfall!Is yonder squalid peasant allThat this proud nursery could breedFor God's vicegerency and stead?Time out of mind, this forge of ores;Quarry of spars in mountain pores;Old cradle, hunting- ground, and bier Of wolf and otter, bear and deer;Well-built abode of many a race;Tower of observance searching space;Factory of river and of rain;Link in the alps' globe- girding chain;By million changes skilled to tell What in the Eternal standeth well,VOL. I. 2 F434 POEMS.And what obedient Nature can; -Is this colossal talismanKindly to plant, and blood, and kind,But speechless to the master's mind?I thought to find the patriots In whom the stock of freedom roots:To myself I oft recountTales of many a famous mount,-Wales, Scotland, Uri, Hungary's dells;Bards, Roys, Scanderbegs, and Tells.Here Nature shall condense her powers,Her music, and her meteors,And lifting man to the blue deep Where stars their perfect courses keep,Like wise preceptor, lure his eyeTo sound the science of the sky,And carry learning to its heightOf untried power and sane delight:The Indian cheer, the frosty skies,Rear purer wits, inventive eyes, -Eyes that frame cities where none be,And hands that stablish what these see;And by the moral of his place Hint summits of heroic grace;Man in these crags a fastness findTo fight pollution of the mind;In the wide thaw and ooze of wrong,Adhere like this foundation strong,The insanity of towns to stem With simpleness for stratagem.But if the brave old mould is broke,And end in churls the mountain folk,In tavern cheer and tavern joke,Sink, O mountain, in the swamp!Hide in thy skies, O sovereign lamp!Perish like leaves, the highland breed,No sire survive, no son succeed!Soft! let not the offended museToil's hard hap with scorn accuse.Many hamlets sought I then,Many farms of mountain men.Rallying round a parish steeple Nestle warm the highland people,Coarse and boisterous, yet mild,Strong as giant, slow as child,Smoking in a squalid roomWhere yet the westland breezes come.MONADNOC. 435Masked in these rough guises lurkWestern magians-here they work.Sweat and season are their arts,Their talismans are ploughs and carts;And well the youngest can command Honey from the frozen land;With cloverheads the swamp adorn,Change the running sand to corn;For wolves and foxes, lowing herds,And for cold mosses, cream and curds;Weave wood to canisters and mats; *Drain sweet maple juice in vats.No bird is safe that cuts the airFrom their rifle or their snare;No fish, in river or in lake,But their long hands it thence will take;And the country's flinty face,Like wax, their fashioning skill betrays,To fill the hollows, sink the hills,Bridge gulfs, drain swamps, build dams and mills,And fit the bleak and howling placeFor gardens of a finer race.The World- soul knows his own affair,Forelooking, when he would prepareFor the next ages, men of mould Well embodied, well ensouled,He cools the present's fiery glow,Sets the life-pulse strong but slow:Bitter winds and fasts austereHis quarantines and grottos, whereHe slowly cures decrepit flesh,And brings it infantile and fresh.Toil and tempest are the toysAnd games to breathe his stalwart boys:They bide their time, and well can prove,If need were, their line from Jove;Of the same stuff, and so allayed,As that whereof the sun is made.And of the fibre, quick and strong,Whose throbs are love, whose thrills are song.Nowin sordid weeds they sleep,In dulness now their secret keep;Yet, will you learn our ancient speech,These the masters who can teach.Fourscore or a hundred wordsAll their vocal muse affords;436 POEMS.But they turn them in a fashion Past clerks' or statesmen's art or passionI can spare the college bell,And the learned lecture, well;Spare the clergy and libraries,Institutes and dictionaries,For that hardy English root Thrives here, unvalued, underfoot.Rude poets of the tavern hearth,Squandering your unquoted mirth,Which keeps the ground, and never soars,While Jake retorts, and Reuben roars;Scoff of yeoman strong and stark,Goes like bullet to its mark;While the solid curse and jeerNever balk the waiting ear.On the summit as I stood,O'er the floor of plain and flood,Seemed to me, the towering hillWas not altogether still,But a quiet sense conveyed;If I err not, thus it said:-'Many feet in summer seek,Oft, my far-appearing peak;In the dreaded winter time,None save dappling shadows climb,Under clouds, my lonely head,Old as the sun, old almost as the shade.And comest thouTo see strange forests and new snow,And tread uplifted land?And leavest thou thy lowland race,Here amid clouds to stand?And wouldst be my companion,Where I gaze, and still shall gaze,Through tempering nights and flashing days,When forests fall, and man is gone,Over tribes and over times,At the burning Lyre,Nearing me,With its stars of northern fire,In many a thousand years?'Ah! welcome, if thou bringMy secret in thy brain;To mountain-top may Muse's wingWith good allowance strain.MONADNOC. 437Gentle pilgrim, if thou knowThe gamut old of Pan,And how the hills began,The frank blessings of the hillFall on thee, as fall they will."Tis the law of bush and stone,Each can only take his own.'Let him heed who can and will;Enchantment fixed me here To stand the hurts of time, untilIn mightier chant I disappear.'If thou trowestHowthe chemic eddies play,Pole to pole, and what they say;And that these gray cragsNot on crags are hung,But beads are of a rosaryOn prayer and music strung;And, credulous, through the granite seeming,Seest the smile of Reason beaming; -Can thy style-discerning eye The hidden-working Builder spy,Who builds, yet makes no chips, no din,With hammer soft as snowflake's flight; -Knowest thou this?O pilgrim, wandering not amiss!Already my rocks lie light,And soon my cone will spin.'For the world was built in order,And the atoms march in tune;Rhyme the pipe, and Time the warder,Cannot forget the sun, the moon.Orb and atom forth they prance,When they hear from far the rune,None so backward in the troop,When the music and the danceReach his place and circ*mstance,But knows the sun- creating sound,And, though a pyramid, will bound.'Monadnoc is a mountain strong,Tall and good my kind among;But well I know, no mountain can,Zion or Meru, measure with mar.For it is on zodiacs writ,Adamant is soft to wit:438 POEMS.And when the greater comes again With my secret in his brain,I shall pass, as glides my shadow Daily over hill and meadow." Through all time, in light, in gloom,Well I hear the approaching feetOn the flinty pathway beat Of him that cometh, and shall come;Of him who shall as lightly bearMy daily load of woods and streams,As doth this round sky- cleaving boatWhich never strains its rocky beams;Whose timbers, as they silent float,Alps and Caucasus uprear,And the long Alleganies here,And all town- sprinkled lands that be,Sailing through stars with all their history.'Every morn I lift my head,See New England underspread,South from St. Lawrence to the Sound,From Katskill east to the sea- bound.Anchored fast for many an age,I await the bard and sage,Who, in large thoughts, like fair pearl- seed,Shall string Monadnoc like a bead.Comes that cheerful troubadour,This mound shall throb his face before,As when, with inward fires and pain,It rose a bubble from the plain.When he cometh, I shall shed,From this wellspring in my head,Fountain-drop of spicier worthThan all vintage of the earth.There's fruit upon my barren soil Costlier far than wine or oil.There's a berry blue and gold, —Autumn-ripe, its juices hold Sparta's stoutness, Bethlehem's heart,Asia's rancour, Athens' art,Slowsure Britain's secular might,And the German's inward sight.I will give my son to eat Best of Pan's immortal meat,Bread to eat, and juice to drink;So the thoughts that he shall thinkMONADNOC. 439Shall not be forms of stars, but stars,Nor pictures pale, but Jove and Mars.He comes, but not of that race bredWho daily climb my specular head.Oft as morning wreathes my scarf,Fled the last plumule of the Dark,Pants up hither the spruce clerkFrom South Cove and City Wharf.I take him up my rugged sides,Half-repentant, scant of breath,—Bead- eyes my granite chaos show,And my midsummer snow;Open the daunting map beneath, -All his county, sea and land,Dwarfed to measure of his hand;His day's ride is a furlong space,His city-tops a glimmering haze.I plant his eyes on the sky-hoop bounding:See there the grim gray rounding 66Of the bullet of the earthWhereon ye sail,Tumbling steep In the uncontinented deep."He looks on that, and he turns pale."Tis even so: this treacherous kite,Farm-furrowed, town-incrusted sphere,Thoughtless of its anxious freight,Plunges eyeless on for ever;And he, poor parasite,Cooped in a ship he cannot steer, —Who is the captain he knows not,Port or pilot trows not, -Risk or ruin he must share.I scowl on him with my cloud,With my north wind chill his blood;I lame him, clattering down the rocks;And to live he is in fear.Then, at last, I let him downOnce more into his dapper town,To chatter, frightened, to his clan,And forget me if he can.'As in the old poetic fameThe gods are blind and lame,And the simular despiteBetrays the more abounding might,440 POEMS.So call not waste that barren cone Above the floral zone,Where forests starve;It is pure use; —What sheaves like those which here we glean and bind Of a celestial Ceres and the Muse?Ages are thy days,Thou grand affirmer of the present tense,And type of permanence!Firm ensign of the fatal Being,Amid these coward shapes of joy and grief,That will not bide the seeing!Hither we bringOur insect miseries to the rocks;And the whole flight, with pestering wing,Vanish, and end their murmuring, -Vanish beside these dedicated blocks,Which who can tell what mason laid?Spoils of a front none need restore,Replacing frieze and architrave; -Yet flowers each stone rosette and metope brave;Still is the haughty pile erectOf the old building Intellect.Complement of human kind,Having us at vantage still,Our sumptuous indigence,O barren mound, thy plenties fill!We fool and prate;Thou art silent and sedate.To myriad kinds and times one sense The constant mountain doth dispense;Shedding on all its snows and leaves,One joy it joys, one grief it grieves.Thou seest, Ŏ watchman tall,Our towns and races grow and fall,And imagest the stable good For which we all our lifetime grope,In shifting form the formless mind,And though the substance us elude,We in thee the shadow find.Thou, in our astronomyAn opaquer star,Seen haply from afar,Above the horizon's hoop,Amoment, by the railway troop,FABLE.-ODE. 441As o'er some bolder height they speed, ——By circ*mspect ambition,By errant gain,By feasters and the frivolous, —Recallest us,And makest sane.Mute orator! well skilled to plead,And send conviction without phrase,Thou dost succour and remedeThe shortness of our days,And promise, on thy Founder's truth,Long morrow to this mortal youth.FABLE.HE mountain and the squirrel Hadaquarrel;And the former called the latter ‘ Little Prig.'Bun replied,' You are doubtless very big;But all sorts of things and weatherMust be taken in together,To make up a yearAnd a sphere.And I think it no disgraceTo occupy my place.If I'm not so large as you,You are not so small as I,And not half so spry.I'll not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track;Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;If I cannot carry forests on my back,Neither can you crack a nut.'TODE,INSCRIBED TO W. H. CHANNING.HOUGH loath to grieve The evil time's sole patriot,I cannot leaveMy honied thoughtFor the priest's cant,Or statesman's rant.442 POEMS.If I refuseMy study for their politique,Which at the best is trick,The angry MusePuts confusion in my brain.But who is he that pratesOf the culture of mankind,Of better arts and life?Go, blindworm, go,Behold the famous StatesHarrying Mexico With rifle and with knife!Or who, with accent bolder,Dare praise the freedom- loving mountaineer?I found by thee, O rushing Contoocook!And in thy valleys, Agiochook!The jackals of the negro-holder.The God who made New HampshireTaunted the lofty land With little men;-Small bat and wrenHouse in the oak:-If earth-fire cleaveThe upheaved land, and bury the folk,The southern crocodile would grieve.Virtue palters; Right is hence;Freedom praised, but hid;Funeral eloquence Rattles the coffin-lid.What boots thy zeal,O glowing friend,That would indignant rend The northland from the south?Wherefore? to what good end?Boston Bay and Bunker Hill Would serve things still;-Things are of the snake.The horseman serves the horse,The neatherd serves the neat,The merchant serves the purse,The eater serves his meat;"Tis the day of the chattel,Web to weave, and corn to grind;Things are in the saddle,And ride mankind.ODE.443There are two laws discrete,Not reconciled, -Law for man, and law for thing;The last builds town and fleet,But it runs wild,And doth the man unking."Tis fit the forest fall,The steep be graded,The mountain tunnelled,The sand shaded,The orchard planted,The glebe tilled,The prairie granted,The steamer built.Let man serve law for man;Live for friendship, live for love,For truth's and harmony's behoof;The state may follow how it can,As Olympus follows Jove.Yet do not I implore The wrinkled shopman to my sounding woods,Nor bid the unwilling senator Ask votes of thrushes in the solitudes.Every one to his chosen work; —Foolish hands may mix and mar;Wise and sure the issues are.Round they roll till dark is light,Sexto sex, and even to odd; -The over- god Who marries Right to Might,Who peoples, unpeoples, -He who exterminatesRaces by stronger races,Black by white faces, -Knows to bring honey Out of the lion;Grafts gentlest scion On pirate and Turk.The Cossack eats Poland,Like stolen fruit;Her last noble is ruined,Her last poet mute:Straight, into double bandThe victors divide;Half for freedom strike and stand; -The astonished Muse finds thousands at her side.444 POEMS.ASTREA.ПHOUthe herald art who wrote THThy rank, and quartered thine own coat.There is no king nor sovereign state That can fix a hero's rate;Each to all is venerable,Cap-a-pie invulnerable,Until he write, where all eyes rest,Slave or master on his breast.1I saw men go up and down,In the country and the town,With this tablet on their neck,-' Judgment and a judge we seek.'Not to monarchs they repair,Nor to learned jurist's chair;But they hurry to their peers,To their kinsfolk and their dears;Louder than with speech they pray, —' What am I? companion, say.'And the friend not hesitatesTo assign just place and mates;Answers not in word or letter,Yet is understood the better;Each to each a looking- glass,Reflects his figure that doth pass.Every wayfarer he meets What himself declared repeats,What himself confessed records,Sentences him in his words;The form is his own corporal form,And his thought the penal worm.Yet shine for ever virgin minds,Loved by stars and purest winds,Which, o'er passion throned sedate,Have not hazarded their state;Disconcert the searching spy,Rendering to a curious eye The durance of a granite ledgeTo those who gaze from the sea's edge.It is there for benefit;It is there for purging light;There for purifying storms;And its depths reflect all forms;ETIENNE DE LA BOÉCE. -SUUM CUIQUE. 445It cannot parley with the mean, -Pure by impure is not seen.For there's no sequestered grot,Lone mountain tarn, or isle forgot,But Justice, journeying in the sphere,Daily stoops to harbour there.ETIENNE DE LA BOÉCE.SERVE you not, if you I follow,Shadowlike, o'er hill and hollow;And bend my fancy to your leading,All too nimble for my treading.When the pilgrimage is done,And we've the landscape overrun,I am bitter, vacant, thwarted,And your heart is unsupported.Vainly valiant, you have missedThe manhood that should yours resist, -Its complement; but if I could,In severe or cordial mood,Lead you rightly to my altar,Where the wisest Muses falter,And worship that world-warming spark Which dazzles me in midnight dark,Equalizing small and large,While the soul it doth surcharge,That the poor is wealthy grown,And the hermit never alone, -The traveller and the road seem oneWith the errand to be done, -That were a man's and lover's part,That were Freedom's whitest chart.SUUM CUIQUE.THE rain has spoiled the farmer's day;TShallsonowput mybooks away?Thereby are two days lost:Nature shall mind her own affairs;I will attend my proper cares,In rain, or sun, or frost.446 POEMS.COMPENSATION.HY should I keep holiday WHYWhen other men have none?Why but because, when these are gay,I sit and mourn alone.And why, when mirth unseals all tongues,Should mine alone be dumb?Ah! late I spoke to silent throngs,And now their hour is come.FORBEARANCE.HAST thou named all the birds withouta gu PLoved the wood- rose, and left it on its stalk?At rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse?Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust?And loved so well a high behaviour,In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained,Nobility more nobly to repay?O, be my friend, and teach me to be thine!HETHE PARK.prosperous and beautiful To meseem not to wearThe yoke of conscience masterful,Which galls me everywhere.I cannot shake off the god;On my neck he makes his seat;I look at my face in the glass, —My eyes his eyeballs meet.Enchanters! enchantresses!Your gold makes you seem wise;The morning mist within your groundsMore proudly rolls, more softly lies.Yet spake yon purple mountain,Yet said yon ancient wood,That Night or Day, that Love or Crime,Leads all souls to the Good.447FORERUNNERS.LONG I followed happy guides I could never reach their sides;Their step is forth, and, ere the day,Breaks up their leaguer, and away.Keen my sense, my heart was young,Right good-will my sinews strung,But no speed of mine availsTo hunt upon their shining trails.On and away, their hasting feet Make the morning proud and sweet;Flowers they strew, -I catch the scent;Or tone of silver instrumentLeaves on the wind melodious trace;Yet I could never see their face.On eastern hills I see their smokes,Mixed with mist by distant lochs.I met many travellers Who the road had surely kept;They saw not my fine revellers, -These had crossed them while they slept.Some had heard their fair report,In the country or the court.Fleetest couriers aliveNever yet could once arrive,As they went or they returned,At the house where these sojourned.Sometimes their strong speed they slacken,Though they are not overtaken;In sleep their jubilant troop is near, —I tuneful voices overhear;It may be in wood or waste, —At unawares 'tis come and past.Their near camp my spirit knowsBy signs gracious as rainbows.I thenceforward, and long after,Listen for their harp- like laughter,And carry in my heart, for days,Peace that hallows rudest ways.SESURSUM CORDA.EEK not the spirit, if it hideInexorable to thy zeal:Baby, do not whine and chide:Art thou not also real?448 POEMS.Why shouldst thou stoop to poor excuse?Turn on the accuser roundly; say,'Here am I, here will I remainFor ever to myself soothfast;Go thou, sweet Heaven, or at thy pleasure stay Already Heaven with thee its lot has cast,For only it can absolutely deal.ODE TO BEAUTY.WHOgave thee, O Beauty The keys of this breast, -Too credulous lover Of blest and unblest?Say, when in lapsed ages Thee knew I of old?Or what was the serviceFor which I was sold?When first my eyes saw thee,I found me thy thrall,By magical drawings,Sweet tyrant of all!I drank at thy fountain False waters of thirst;Thou intimate stranger,Thou latest and first!Thy dangerous glances Make women of men;New-born, we are meltingInto nature again.Lavish, lavish promiser,Nigh persuading gods to err!Guest of million painted forms,Which in turn thy glory warms!The frailest leaf, the mossy bark,The acorn's cup, the raindrop's arc,The swinging spider's silver line,The ruby of the drop of wine,The shining pebble of the pond,Thou inscribest with a bond,In thy momentary play,Would bankrupt nature to repay.Ah, what avails it To hide or to shun Whom the Infinite OneHath granted his throne?ODE TO BEAUTY. 449VOL. I.The heaven high overIs the deep's lover;The sun and sea,Informed by thee,Before me run,And draw me on,Yet fly me still,As Fate refusesTo me the heart Fate for me chooses.Is it that my opulent soulWas mingled from the generous whole;Sea-valleys and the deep of skies Furnished several supplies;And the sands whereof I'm madeDraw me to them, self-betrayed?I turn the proud portfolios Which hold the grand designsOf Salvator, of Guercino,And Piranesi's lines.I hear the lofty pæansOf the masters of the shell,Who heard the starry music And recount the numbers well;Olympian bards who sung Divine Ideas below,Which always find us young,And always keep us so.Oft, in streets or humblest places,I detect far-wandered graces,Which, from Eden wide astray,In lowly homes have lost their way.Thee gliding through the sea of form,Like the lightning through the storm,Somewhat not to be possessed,Somewhat not to be caressed,No feet so fleet could ever find,No perfect form could ever bind.Thou eternal fugitive,Hovering over all that live,Quick and skilful to inspireSweet, extravagant desire,Starry space and lily-bellFilling with thy roseate smell,Wilt not give the lips to taste Of the nectar which thou hast.2 G450 POEMS.All that's good and great with thee Works in close conspiracy;Thou hast bribed the dark and lonelyTo report thy features only,And the cold and purple morningItself with thoughts of thee adorning;The leafy dell, the city mart,Equal trophies of thine art;E'en the flowing azure air Thou hast touched for my despair;And, if I languish into dreams,Again I meet the ardent beams.Queen of things! I dare not dieIn Being's deeps past ear and eye;Lest there I find the same deceiver,And be the sport of Fate for ever.Dread Power, but dear! if God thou be,Unmake me quite, or give thyself to me!GIVE ALL TO LOVE.IVE all to love;G¹Obeythyheart;Friends, kindred, days,Estate, good-fame,Plans, credit, and the Muse, —Nothing refuse."Tis a brave master;Let it have scope:Follow it utterly,Hope beyond hope:High and more high It dives into noon,With wing unspent,Untold intent;But it is a god,Knows its own path,And the outlets of the sky.It was not for the mean;It requireth courage stout,Souls above doubt,Valour unbending;TO ELLEN. 451Such ' twill reward,-They shall returnMore than they were,And ever ascending.Leave all for love;Yet, hear me, yet,One word more thy heart behoved,One pulse more of firm endeavour, -Keep thee to- day,To-morrow, for ever,Free as an ArabOf thy beloved.Cling with life to the maid;But when the surprise,First vague shadow of surmiseFlits across her bosom youngOf a joy apart from thee,Free be she, fancy-free;Nor thou detain her vesture's hem,Nor the palest rose she flung From her summer diadem.Though thou loved her as thyself,As a self of purer clay,Though her parting dims the day,Stealing grace from all alive;Heartily know,When half- gods go,The gods arrive.TO ELLEN.AT THE SOUTH.THEgorging The morning wind is in it;'Tis a tune worth thy knowing,Though it change every minute."Tis a tune of the spring;Every year plays it over,To the robin on the wing,And to the pausing lover.O'er ten thousand, thousand acres,Goes light the nimble zephyr;The Flowers-tiny sect of ShakersWorship him ever.452 POEMS.Hark to the winning sound!They summon thee, dearest, —Saying, 'We have dressed for thee the ground,Nor yet thou appearest.'O hasten; 'tis our time,Ere yet the red SummerScorch our delicate prime,Loved of bee, —the tawny hummer." O pride of thy race!Sad, in sooth, it were to ours, "If our brief tribe miss thy face,We poor New England flowers.'Fairest, choose the fairest membersOf our lithe society;June's glories and September'sShow our love and piety."Thou shalt command us all, -April's cowslip, summer's clover,To the gentian in the fall,Blue-eyed pet of blue-eyed lover.'O come, then, quickly come!We are budding, we are blowing;And the wind that we perfumeSings a tune that's worth the knowing.'1TO EVA.FAIRand stately maid, whoseeyes Were kindled in the upper skiesAt the same torch that lighted mine;For so I must interpret stillThy sweet dominion o'er my will,A sympathy divine.Ah! let me blameless gaze uponFeatures that seem at heart my own;Nor fear those watchful sentinels,Who charm the more their glance forbids,Chaste- glowing, underneath their lids,With fire that draws while it repels.453THE AMULET.OUR picture smiles as first it smiled The ring yougave is still the same,Your letter tells, O changing child!No tidings since it came.Give me an amuletThat keeps intelligence with you, —Red when you love, and rosier red,And when you love not, pale and blueAlas! that neither bonds nor vowsCan certify possession;Torments me still the fear that loveDied in its last expression.THINE EYES STILL SHINED.PHINE eyes still shined for me, though far I lonely roved the land or sea:As I behold yon evening star,Which yet beholds not me.This morn I climbed the misty hill,And roamed the pastures through;How danced thy form before my pathAmidst the deep- eyed dew!When the redbird spread his sable wing,And showed his side of flame;When the rosebud ripened to the rose,In both I read thy name.EROS.HE sense of the world is short,Long and various the report,To love and be beloved;Men and gods have not outlearned it;And, how oft soe'er they've turned it,"Twill not be improved.454 POEMS.HERMIONE.Na mound an Arab lay,ONand sung his sweet regrets,And told his amulets:The summer birdHis sorrow heard,And, when he heaved a sigh profound,The sympathetic swallow swept the ground.' If it be, as they said, she was not fair,Beauty's not beautiful to me,But sceptred genius, aye inorbed,Culminating in her sphere.This Hermione absorbed The lustre of the land and ocean,Hills and islands, cloud and tree,In her form and motion.' I ask no bauble miniature,Nor ringlets dead Shorn from her comely head,Nowthat morning not disdains- Mountains and the misty plainsHer colossal portraiture;They her heralds be,Steeped in her quality,And singers of her fameWho is their Muse and dame.' Higher, dear swallows! mind not what I say.Ah! heedless how the weak are strong,Say, was it just,In thee to frame, in me to trust,Thou to the Syrian couldst belong?' I am of a lineage That each for each doth fast engage;In old Bassorah's schools, I seemedHermit vowed to books and gloom, -Ill-bested for gay bridegroom.I was by thy touch redeemed;When thy meteor glances came,We talked at large of worldly fate,And drew truly every trait.HERMIONE. 455'Once I dwelt apart,Now I live with all;As shepherd's lamp on far hill- sideSeems, by the traveller espied,A door into the mountain heart,So didst thou quarry and unlock Highways for me through the rock.' Now, deceived, thou wanderestIn strange lands unblest;And my kindred come to soothe me.Southwind is my next of blood;He is come through fragrant wood,Drugged with spice from climates warm,And in every twinkling glade,And twilight nook,Unveils thy form.Out of the forest wayForth paced it yesterday;And when I sat by the watercourse,Watching the daylight fade,It throbbed up from the brook.' River, and rose, and crag, and bird,Frost, and sun, and eldest night,To me their aid preferred,To me their comfort plight; —66 Courage! we are thine allies,And with this hint be wise, -The chains of kindThe distant bind;Deed thou doest she must do,Above her will, be true;And, in her strict resort To winds and waterfalls,And autumn's sunlit festivals,To music, and to music's thought,Inextricably bound,She shall find thee, and be found.Follow not her flying feet;Come to us herself to meet."456 POEMS.INITIAL, DÆMONIC, AND CELESTIAL LOVE.VEI.—THE INITIAL LOVE.ENUS, when her son was lost,Cried him up and down the coast,In hamlets, palaces, and parks,And told the truant by his marks, --Golden curls, and quiver, and bow.This befell long ago.Time and tide are strangely changed,Men and manners much deranged:None will now find Cupid latent,By this foolish antique patent.He came late along the waste,Shod like a traveller for haste;With malice dared me to proclaim him,That the maids and boys might name him.Boy no more, he wears all coats,Frocks, and blouses, capes, capotes;He bears no bow, or quiver, or wand,Nor chaplet on his head or hand.Leave his weeds and heed his eyes, -All the rest he can disguise.In the pit of his eye ' s a sparkWould bring back day if it were dark;And, if I tell you all my thought,Though I comprehend it not,In those unfathomable orbsEvery function he absorbs.He doth eat, and drink, and fish, and shoot,And write, and reason, and compute,And ride, and run, and have, and hold,And whine, and flatter, and regret,And kiss, and couple, and beget,By those roving eyeballs bold.Undaunted are their courages,Right Cossacks in their forages;Fleeter they than any creature, -They are his steeds, and not his feature;Inquisitive, and fierce, and fasting,Restless, predatory, hasting;THE INITIAL LOVE. 457And they pounce on other eyes As lions on their prey;And round their circles is writ,Plainer than the day,Underneath, within, above, —Love-love-love- love.He lives in his eyes;There doth digest, and work, and spin,And buy, and sell, and lose, and win;He rolls them with delighted motion,Joy-tides swell their mimic ocean.Yet holds he them with tortest rein,That they may seize and entertainThe glance that to their glance opposes,Like fiery honey sucked from roses .He palmistry can understand,Imbibing virtue by his hand,As if it were a living root;The pulse of hands will make him mute;With all his force he gathers balms Into those wise, thrilling palms.Cupid is a casuist,Amystic, and a cabalist, -Can your lurking thought surprise,And interpret your device.He is versed in occult science,In magic, and in clairvoyance;Oft he keeps his fine ear strained,And Reason on her tiptoe painedFor aëry intelligence,And for strange coincidence.But it touches his quick heart When Fate by omens takes his part,And chance-dropped hints from Nature's sphere Deeply soothe his anxious ear.Heralds high before him run;He has ushers many a one;He spreads his welcome where he goes,And touches all things with his rose.All things wait for and divine him, —How shall I dare to malign him,Or accuse the god of sport?I must end my true report,Painting him from head to foot,In as far as I took note,458 POEMS.Trusting well the matchless powerOf this young-eyed emperorWill clear his fame from every cloud,With the bards and with the crowd.He is wilful, mutable,Shy, untamed, inscrutable,Swifter-fashioned than the fairies,Substance mixed of pure contraries;His vice some elder virtue's token,And his good is evil- spoken.Failing sometimes of his own,He is headstrong and alone;He affects the wood and wild,Like a flower-hunting child;Buries himself in summer waves,In trees, with beasts, in mines, and caves;Loves nature like a horned cow,Bird, or deer, or caribou.Shun him, nymphs, on the fleet horses!He has a total world of wit;O how wise are his discourses!But he is the arch-hypocrite,And, through all science and all art,Seeks alone his counterpart.He is a Pundit of the East,He is an augur and a priest,And his soul will melt in prayer,But word and wisdom is a snare;Corrupted by the present toy,He follows joy, and only joy.There is no mask but he will wear;He invented oaths to swear;He paints, he carves, he chants, he prays,And holds all stars in his embrace,Godlike, —but 'tis for his fine pelf,The social quintessence of self.Well said I he is hypocrite,And folly the end of his subtle wit!He takes a sovereign privilegeNot allowed to any liege;For he does go behind all law,And right into himself does draw;For he is sovereignly allied,-Heaven's oldest blood flows in his side, -THE DÆMONIC AND THE CELESTIAL LOVE. 459And interchangeably at oneWith every king on every throne,That no god dare say him nay,Or see the fault, or seen betray:He has the Muses by the heart,And the Parcæ all are of his part.His many signs cannot be told;He has not one mode, but manifold,Many fashions and addresses,Piques, reproaches, hurts, caresses,Arguments, lore, poetry,Action, service, badinage;He will preach like a friar,And jump like Harlequin;He will read like a crier,And fight like a Paladin.Boundless is his memory;Plans immense his term prolong;He is not of counted age,Meaning always to be young.And his wish is intimacy,Intimater intimacy,And a stricter privacy;The impossible shall yet be done,And, being two, shall still be one.As the wave breaks to foam on shelves,Then runs into a wave again,So lovers melt their sundered selves,Yet melted would be twain.II. THE DÆMONIC AND THE CELESTIAL LOVE.[AN was made of social earth,M Child and brother from his birth,Tethered by a liquid cord Of blood through veins of kindred poured.Next his heart the fireside bandOf mother, father, sister, stand:Names from awful childhood heardThrobs of a wild religion stirred;-Virtue, to love, to hate them, vice;Till dangerous Beauty came, at last,Till Beauty came to snap all ties;The maid, abolishing the past,--460 POEMS.With lotus wine obliteratesDear memory's stone-incarved traits ,And, by herself, supplants alone Friends year by year more inly known.When her calm eyes opened bright,All were foreign in their light.It was ever the self- same tale,The first experience will not fail;Only two in the garden walked,And with snake and seraph talked.But God said,' I will have a purer gift;There is smoke in the flame;New flowerets bring, new prayers uplift,And love without a name.Fond children, ye desireTo please each other well;Another round, a higher,Ye shall climb on the heavenly stair,And selfish preference forbear;And in right deserving,And without a swervingEach from your proper state,Weave roses for your mate.' Deep, deep are loving eyes,Flowed with naphtha fiery sweet;And the point is paradise Where their glances meet:Their reach shall yet be more profound,And a vision without bound:The axis of those eyes sun-clear Be the axis of the sphere:So shall the lights ye pour amain Go, without check or intervals,Through from the empyrean walls Unto the same again.'Close, close to men,Like undulating layer of air,Right above their heads,The potent plain of Dæmons spreads.Stands to each human soul its own,For watch, and ward, and furtherance,In the snares of Nature's dance;And the lustre and the graceTo fascinate each youthful heart,Beaming from its counterpart,THE DÆMONIC AND THE CELESTIAL LOVE. 461Translucent through the mortal covers,Is the Dæmon's form and face.To and fro the Genius hies, -A gleam which plays and hovers Over the maiden's head,And dips sometimes as low as to her eyes,Unknown, albeit lying near,To men, the path to the Dæmon sphere;And they that swiftly come and go Leave no track on the heavenly snow.Sometimes the airy synod bends,And the mighty choir descends ,And the brains of men thenceforth,In crowded and in still resorts,Teem with unwonted thoughts:As, when a shower of meteorsCross the orbit of the earth,And, lit by fringent air,Blaze near and far,Mortals deem the planets bright Have slipped their sacred bars,And the lone seaman all the night Sails, astonished, amid stars.Beauty of a richer vein,Graces of a subtler strain,Unto men these moonmen lend,And our shrinking sky extend.So is man's narrow pathBy strength and terror skirted;Also, (from the song the wrath Of the Genii be averted!The Muse the truth uncoloured speaking, )The Dæmons are self- seeking:Their fierce and limitary will 1Draws men to their likeness still.The erring painter made Love blind, -Highest Love who shines on all;Him, radiant, sharpest- sighted god,None can bewilder;Whose eyes pierce The universe,Path-finder, road-builder,Mediator, royal giver;Rightly seeing, rightly seen,Ofjoyful and transparent mien.462 POEMS.'Tis a sparkle passing From each to each, from thee to me,To and fro perpetually;Sharing all, daring all,Levelling, displacing Each obstruction, it unitesEquals remote, and seeming opposites.And ever and for ever LoveDelights to build a road:Unheeded Danger near him strides,Love laughs, and on a lion rides.But Cupid wears another face,Born into Dæmons less divine:His roses bleach apace,His nectar smacks of wine.The Dæmon ever builds a wall,Himself encloses and includes,Solitude in solitudes:In like sort his love doth fall.He is an oligarch;He prizes wonder, fame, and mark;He loveth crowns;He scorneth drones;He doth electThe beautiful and fortunate,And the sons of intellect,And the souls of ample fate,Who the Future's gates unbar, -Minions of the Morning Star.In his prowess he exults,And the multitude insults.His impatient looks devour Oft the humble and the poor:And, seeing his eye glare,They drop their few pale flowers,Gathered with hope to please,Along the mountain towers, -Lose courage, and despair.He will never be gainsaid, ―Pitiless, will not be stayed;His hot tyrannyBurns up every other tie.Therefore comes an hour from JoveWhich his ruthless will defies.And the dogs of Fate unties.THE DÆMONIC AND THE CELESTIAL LOVE. 463Shiver the palaces of glass;Shrivel the rainbow- coloured walls,Where in bright Art each god and sibyl dwelt,Secure as in the zodiac's belt;And the galleries and halls,Wherein every siren sung,Like a meteor pass.For this fortune wanted rootIn the core of God's abysm,—Was a weed of self and schism;And ever the Dæmonic Love Is the ancestor of wars,And the parent of remorse.far,III.HIGUpward into the pure realm,Over sun and star,Over the flickering Dæmon film,Thou must mount for love;Into vision where all formIn one only form dissolves;In a region where the wheel,On which all beings ride,Visibly revolves;Where the starred, eternal wormGirds the world with bound and term;Where unlike things are like;Where good and ill ,Andjoy and moan,Melt into one.There Past, Present, Future, shootTriple blossoms from one root;Substances at base dividedIn their summits are united;There the holy essence rolls,One through separated souls;And the sunny on sleeps,Folding Nature in its deeps;And every fair and every good,Known in part, or known impure,To men below,In their archetypes endure.The race of gods,Or those we erring own,Are shadows flitting up and down464 POEMS.In the still abodes.The circles of that sea are lawsWhich publish and which hide the cause.Pray for a beamOut of that sphere,Thee to guide and to redeem.O, what a loadOf care and toil,By lying use bestowed,From his shoulders falls who seesThe true astronomy,The period of peace.Counsel which the ages keptShall the well- born soul accept.As the overhanging trees Fill the lake with imagesAs garment draws the garment's hem,Men their fortunes bring with them.By right or wrong,Lands and goods go to the strong.Property will brutely draw Still to the proprietor;Silver to silver creep and wind,And kind to kind.Nor less the eternal polesOf tendency distribute souls.There need no vows to bindWhom not each other seek, but find.They give and take no pledge or oath- Nature is the bond of both;No prayer persuades, no flattery fawns- Their noble meanings are their pawns.Plain and cold is their address,Power have they for tenderness;And, so thoroughly is known Each other's counsel by his own,They can parley without meeting;Need is none of forms of greeting;They can well communicate In their innermost estate;When each the other shall avoid,Shall each by each be most enjoyed.Not with scarfs or perfumed gloves Do these celebrate their loves;THE APOLOGY. 465Not byjewels, feasts, and savours,Not by ribbons or by favours,But by the sun- spark on the sea,And the cloud- shadow on the lea,The soothing lapse of morn to mirk,And the cheerful round of work.Their cords of love so public are,They intertwine the farthest star;The throbbing sea, the quaking earth,Yield sympathy and signs of mirth;Is none so high, so mean is none,But feels and seals this union;Even the fell Furies are appeased,The good applaud, the lost are eased.Love's hearts are faithful, but not fond,Bound for the just, but not beyond;Not glad, as the low- loving herd,Of self in other still preferred,But they have heartily designed The benefit of broad mankind.And they serve men austerely,After their own genius, clearly,Without a false humility;For this is Love's nobilityNot to scatter bread and gold,Goods and raiment bought and sold;But to hold fast his simple sense,And speak the speech of innocence,And with hand, and body, and blood,To make his bosom- counsel good.For he that feeds men serveth few;He serves all who dares be true.VOL. 1.THE APOLOGY.HINK me not unkind and rude TE That I walk alone in grove and glen;I go to the god of the wood To fetch his word to men.Tax not my sloth that IFold my arms beside the brook;Each cloud that floated in the sky Writes a letter in my book.2 H466 POEMS.Chide me not, laborious band,For the idle flowers I brought;Every aster in my handGoes home loaded with a thought.There was never mystery But ' tis figured in the flowers;Was never secret history But birds tell it in the bowers.One harvest from thy field Homeward brought the oxen strong;A second crop thine acres yield,Which I gather in a song.I. MERLIN.HY trivial harp will never pleaseOr fill my craving ear;Its chords should ring as blows the breeze,Free, peremptory, clear.No jingling serenader's art,Nor tinkle of piano strings,Can make the wild blood startIn its mystic springs.The kingly bard Must smite the chords rudely and hard,As with hammer or with mace;That they may render backArtful thunder, which conveys Secrets of the solar track,Sparks of the supersolar blaze.Merlin's blows are strokes of fate,Chiming with the forest tone,When boughs buffet boughs in the wood;Chiming with the gasp and moanOf the ice-imprisoned flood;With the pulse of manly hearts;With the voice of orators;With the din of city arts;With the cannonade of wars;With the marches of the brave;And prayers of might from martyrs' cave.Great is the art,Great be the manners, of the bard.MERLIN. 467He shall not his brain encumberWith the coil of rhythm and number;But, leaving rule and pale forethought,He shall aye climbFor his rhyme.Pass in, pass in,' the angels say,In to the upper doors,Nor count compartments But mount to paradise of the floors,Bythe stairway of surprise .'Blameless master of the games,King of sport that never shames,He shall daily joy dispenseHid in song's sweet influence.Things more cheerly live and go,What time the subtle mindSings aloud the tune wheretoTheir pulses beat,And march their feet,And their members are combined.By Sybarites beguiled,He shall no task decline;Merlin's mighty line Extremes of nature reconciled ---Bereaved a tyrant of his will,And made the lion mild.Songs can the tempest still ,Scattered on the stormy air,Mould the year to fair increase,And bring in poetic peace.He shall not seek to weave,In weak, unhappy times,Efficacious rhymes;Wait his returning strength.Bird, that from the nadir's floor To the zenith's top can soar,The soaring orbit of the muse exceeds that journey's length.Nor profane affect to hitOr compass that, by meddling wit,Which only the propitious mind Publishes when 'tis inclined.There are open hoursWhen the God's will sallies free,And the dull idiot might see468 POEMS.The flowing fortunes of a thousand years;-Sudden, at unawares,Self-moved, fly-to the doors,Nor sword of angels could revealWhat they conceal.II.-MERLIN.THE rhyme of poet Modulates the king's affairs;Balance-loving NatureMade all things in pairs.To every foot its antipode;Each colour with its counter glowed;To every tone beat answering tones,Higher or graver;Flavour gladly blends with flavour;Leaf answers leaf upon the bough;And match the paired cotyledons.Hands to hands, and feet to feet,In one body grooms and brides;Eldest rite, two married sidesIn every mortal meet.Light's far furnace shines,Smelting balls and bars,Forging double stars,Glittering twins and trines.The animals are sick with love,Lovesick with rhyme:Each with all propitious time Into chorus wove.Like the dancers' ordered band,Thoughts come also hand in hand;In equal couples mated,Or else alternated;Adding by their mutual gage,One to other, health and age.Solitary fancies go Short-lived wandering to and fro,Most like to bachelors,Or an ungiven maid,Not ancestors,With no posterity to make the lie afraid,Or keep truth undecayed.BACCHUS. 469Perfect-paired as eagle's wings,Justice is the rhyme of things;Trade and counting use The self-same tuneful muse;And Nemesis,Who with even matches odd,Who athwart space redressesThe partial wrong,Fills the just period,And finishes the song.Subtle rhymes, with ruin rife,Murmur in the house of life,Sung by the Sisters as they spin;In perfect time and measure they Build and unbuild our echoing clay,As the two twilights of the day Fold us music- drunken in.BACCHUS.BRINGthemebelly wineof, but thewine grapewhich , never grewOr grew on vine whose tap-roots, reaching throughUnder the Andes to the Cape,Suffered no savour of the earth to scape.Let its grapes the morn salute From a nocturnal root,Which feels the acrid juice Of Styx and Erebus;And turns the woe of Night,By its own craft, to a more rich delight.We buy ashes for bread;We buy diluted wine;Give me of the true, -Whose ample leaves and tendrils curledAmong the silver hills of heaven,Draw everlasting dew;Wine of wine,Blood of the world,Form of forms, and mould of statures,That I intoxicated, 1And by the draught assimilated,May float at pleasure through all natures;470 POEMS.The bird-language rightly spell,And that which roses say so well.Wine that is shedLike the torrents of the sunUp the horizon walls ,Or like the Atlantic streams, which run When the South Sea calls.Water and bread,Food which needs no transmuting,Rainbow-flowering, wisdom-fruiting Wine which is already man,Food which teach and reason can.Wine which Music is,-Music and wine are one, -That I, drinking this,Shall hear far Chaos talk with me;Kings unborn shall walk with me;And the poor grass shall plot and plan What it will do when it is man.Quickened so, will I unlockEvery crypt of every rock.I thank the joyful juice For all I know; -Winds of rememberingOf the ancient being blow,And seeming-solid walls of use Open and flow.Pour, Bacchus! the remembering wine;Retrieve the loss of me and mine!Vine for vine be antidote,And the grape requite the lote!Haste to cure the old despair, -Reason in Nature's lotus drenched,The memory of ages quenched;Give them again to shine;Let wine repair what this undid;And where the infection slid,A dazzling memory revive;Refresh the faded tints,Recut the aged prints,And write my old adventures with the pen Which on the first day drew,Upon the tablets blue,The dancing Pleiads and eternal men.471LOSS AND GAIN.VIRTUE runs before the Muse,And defies her skill;She is rapt, and doth refuseTo wait a painter's will.Star-adoring, occupied,Virtue cannot bend herJust to please a poet's pride,To parade her splendour.The bard must be with good intentNo more his, but hers;Must throw away his pen and paint,Kneel with worshippers.Then, perchance, a sunny ray From the heaven of fire,His lost tools may overpay,And better his desire.WMEROPS.7HAT care I, so they stand the same.-- Things of the heavenly mind, —How long the power to give them nameTarries yet behind?Thus far to- day your favours reach,O fair, appeasing presences!Ye taught my lips a single speech,And a thousand silences.Space grants beyond his fated road No inch to the god of day;And copious language still bestowed One word, no more, to say.THE HOUSE.THERE is no architectCan build as the Muse can;She is skilful to selectMaterials for her plan;472 POEMS.Slow and warily to choose Rafters of immortal pine,Or cedar incorruptible,Worthy her design.She threads dark Alpine forests,Or valleys by the sea,In many lands, with painful steps,Ere she can find a tree.She ransacks mines and ledges,And quarries every rock,To hewthe famous adamantFor each eternal block.She lays her beams in music,In music every one,To the cadence of the whirling world Which dances round the sun;That so they shall not be displacedBy lapses or by wars,But, for the love of happy souls,Outlive the newest stars .SAADI.PREES in groves,T Kine in droves,In ocean sport the scaly herds,Wedge- like cleave the air the birds,To northern lakes fly wind- borne ducks,Browse the mountain sheep in flocks,Men consort in camp and town,But the poet dwells alone.God, who gave to him the lyre,Of all mortals the desire,For all breathing men's behoof,Straightly charged him, ' Sit aloof;'Annexed a warning, poets say,To the bright premium, -Ever, when twain together play,Shall the harp be dumb.Many may come,But one shall sing;Two touch the string,The harp is dumb,SAADI. 473Though there come a million,Wise Saadi dwells alone.Yet Saadi loved the race of men, ---No churl, immured in cave or den;In bower and hallHe wants them all,Nor can dispense With Persia for his audience:They must give ear,Grow red with joy and white with fear;But he has no companion;Come ten, or come a million,Good Saadi dwells alone.Be thou ware where Saadi dwells;Wisdom of the gods is he,-Entertain it reverently.Gladly round that golden lamp Sylvan deities encamp,And simple maids and noble youth Are welcome to the man of truth.Most welcome they who need him most,They feed the spring which they exhaust:For greater need Draws better deed:But, critic, spare thy vanity,Nor show thy pompous parts,To vex with odious subtlety The cheerer of men's hearts.Sad-eyed Fakirs swiftly say Endless dirges to decay,Never in the blaze of light Lose the shudder of midnight;Pale at overflowing noonHear wolves barking at the moon;In the bower of dalliance sweetHear the far Avenger's feet;And shake before those awful Powers,Who in their pride forgive not ours.Thus the sad-eyed Fakirs preach:' Bard, when thee would Allah teach,And lift thee to his holy mount,He sends thee from his bitter fountWormwood, saying, " Go thy ways,Drink not the Malaga of praise,474 POEMS.But do the deed thy fellows hate,And compromise thy peaceful state;Smite the white breasts which thee fed;Stuff sharp thorns beneath the head Of them thou shouldst have comforted;For out of woe and out of crimeDraws the heart a lore sublime. "And yet it seemeth not to meThat the high gods love tragedy;For Saadi sat in the sun,And thanks was his contrition;For haircloth and for bloody whips,Had active hands and smiling lips;And yet his runes he rightly read,And to his folk his message sped.Sunshine in his heart transferredLighted each transparent word,And well could honouring Persia learn What Saadi wished to say;For Saadi's nightly stars did burnBrighter than Dschami's day.Whispered the Muse in Saadi's cot:' O gentle Saadi, listen not,Tempted by thy praise of wit,Or by thirst and appetite For the talents not thine own,To sons of contradiction.Never, son of eastern morning,Follow falsehood, follow scorning.Denounce who will, who will deny,And pile the hills to scale the sky;Let theist, atheist, pantheist,Define and wrangle how they list,Fierce conserver, fierce destroyer,But thou, joy-giver and enjoyer,Unknowing war, unknowing crime,Gentle Saadi, mind thy rhyme;Heed not what the brawlers say,Heed thou only Saadi's lay.' Let the great world bustle on With war and trade, with camp and townA thousand men shall dig and eat;At forge and furnace thousands sweat;And thousands sail the purple sea,And give or take the stroke of war,Or crowd the market and bazaar;SAADI. 475Oft shall war end, and peace return,And cities rise where cities burn,Ere one man my hill shall climb,Who can turn the golden rhyme.Let them manage how they may,Heed thou only Saadi's lay.Seek the living among the dead, -Man in man is imprisoned;Barefooted Dervish is not poor,If fate unlock his bosom's door,So that what his eye hath seenHis tongue can paint as bright, as keen;And what his tender heart hath feltWith equal fire thy heart shall melt.For, whom the Muses smile upon,And touch with soft persuasion,His words like a storm-wind can bringTerror and beauty on their wing;In his every syllable Lurketh nature veritable;And though he speak in midnight dark, -In heaven no star, on earth no spark,-Yet before the listener's eye Swims the world in ecstasy,The forest waves, the morning breaks,The pastures sleep, ripple the lakes,Leaves twinkle, flowers like persons be,And life pulsates in rock or tree.Saadi, so far thy words shall reach:Suns rise and set in Saadi's speech! 'And thus to Saadi said the Muse:' Eat thou the bread which men refuse;Flee from the goods which from thee flee;Seek nothing, -Fortune seeketh thee.Nor mount, nor dive; all good things keepThe midway of the eternal deep.Wish not to fill the isles with eyesTo fetchthee birds of paradise:On thine orchard's edge belongAll the brags of plume and song;Wise Ali's sunbright sayings passFor proverbs in the market- place;Through mountains bored by regal art,Toil whistles as he drives his cart.Nor scour the seas, nor sift mankind,A poet or a friend to find:476 POEMS.1Behold, he watches at the door!Behold his shadow on the floor!Open innumerable doorsThe heaven where unveiled Allah poursThe flood of truth, the flood of good,The Seraph's and the Cherub's food:Those doors are men: the Pariah hindAdmits thee to the perfect Mind.Seek not beyond thy cottage wallRedeemers that can yield thee all:While thou sittest at thy doorOn the desert's yellow floor,Listening to the gray-haired crones,Foolish gossips, ancient drones,Saadi, see! they rise in statureTo the height of mighty Nature,And the secret stands revealedFraudulent Time in vain concealed, -That blessed gods in servile masksPlied for thee thy household tasks. ’FROMHOLIDAYS.ROM fall to spring the russet acorn,Fruit beloved of maid and boy,Lent itself beneath the forest,To be the children's toy.Pluck it now! In vain, -thou canst not;Its root has pierced yon shady mound;Toy no longer-it has duties;It is anchored in the ground.Year by year the rose-lipped maiden,Playfellow of young and old,Was frolic sunshine, dear to all men,More dear to one than mines of gold.Whither went the lovely hoyden?Disappeared in blessed wife;Servant to a wooden cradle,Living in a baby's life.Still thou playest; -short vacation Fate grants each to stand aside;Now must thou be man and artist, -'Tis the turning of the tide.477PAINTING AND SCULPTURE.THEsinful still isnaked, being dressed:HE sinful painter drapes his goddess warm,The godlike sculptor will not so deformBeauty, which limbs and flesh enough invest.FROM THE PERSIAN OF HAFIZ.The poems of Hafiz are held by the Persians to be allegoric and mysti- cal. His German editor, Von Hammer, remarks on the following poem, that, though in appearance anacreontic, it may be regarded as one of the best of those compositions which earned for Hafiz thehonourable title of " Tongue of the Secret. "UTLER, fetch the ruby wine BWhich with sudden greatness fills us;Pour for me, who in my spiritFail in courage and performance Bring this philosophic stone,Karun's treasure, Noah's age;Haste, that by thy means I open All the doors of luck and life.Bring to me the liquid fireZoroaster sought in dust:To Hafiz, revelling, ' tis allowedTo pray to Matter and to Fire.Bring the wine of Jamschid's glass,Which glowed, ere time was, in the Néant;Bring it me, that through its force I, as Jamschid, see through worlds.Wisely said the Kaisar Jamschid,The world's not worth a barleycorn:'Let flute and lyre lordly speak;Lees of wine outvalue crowns.Bring me, boy, the veiled beauty,Who in ill- famed houses sits:Bring her forth; my honest name Freely barter I for wine.Bring me, boy, the fire-water; -Drinks the lion, the woods burn;Give it me, that I storm heaven,And tear the net from the archwolf.478 POEMS.Wine wherewith the Houris teachSouls the ways of paradise!On the living coals I'll set it,And therewith my brain perfume.Bring me wine, through whose effulgence Jam and Chosroes yielded light;Wine, that to the flute I sing Where is Jam, and where is Kauss.Bring the blessing of old times, —Bless the old, departed shahs!Bring me wine which spendeth lordship,Wine whose pureness searcheth hearts;Bring it me, the shah of hearts!Give me wine to wash me cleanOf the weather- stains of cares,See the countenance of luck.Whilst I dwell in spirit-gardens,Wherefore stand I shackled here?Lo, this mirror shows me all!Drunk, I speak of purity,Beggar, I of lordship speak;When Hafiz in his revel sings,Shouteth Sohra in her sphere.Fear the changes of a day:Bring wine which increases life.Since the world is all untrue,Let the trumpets thee remind Howthe crown of Kobad vanished.Be not certain of the world, —"Twill not spare to shed thy blood.Desperate of the world's affairCame I running to the wine-house.Bring me wine which maketh glad,That I may my steed bestride,Through the course career with Rustem, —Gallop to my heart's content;That I reason quite expunge,And plant banners on the worlds.Let us make our glasses kiss;Let us quench the sorrow-cinders.To-day let us drink together;Now and then will never agree.Whoso has arranged a banquet Is with glad mind satisfied,'Scaping from the snares of Dews.FROM THE PERSIAN OF HAFIZ. 479Woe for youth! ' tis gone in the wind:Happy he who spent it well!Bring wine, that I overspring Both worlds at a single leap.Stole, at dawn, from glowing spheres Call of Houris to my sense:-'O lovely bird, delicious soul,Spread thy pinions, break thy cage;Sit on the roof of seven domes,Where the spirits take their rest. 'In the time of Bisurdschimihr,Menutscheher's beauty shined.On the beaker of Nushirvan,Wrote they once in elder times,' Hear the counsel; learn from usSample of the course of things:The earth-it is a place of sorrow,Scanty joys are here below;Who has nothing has no sorrow.'Where is Jam, and where his cup?Solomon and his mirror, where?Which of the wise masters knowsWhat time Kauss and Jam existed?When those heroes left this world,They left nothing but their names.Bind thy heart not to the earth;When thou goest, come not back;Fools spend on the world their hearts, —League with it is feud with heaven:Never gives it what thou wishest.A cup of wine imparts the sight Of the five heaven-domes with nine steps:Whoso can himself renounceWithout support shall walk thereon; —Who discreet is, is not wise.Give me, boy, the Kaisar cup,Which rejoices heart and soul.Under wine and under cupSignify we purest love.Youth like lightning disappears;Life goes by us as the wind.Leave the dwelling with six doors,And the serpent with nine heads;Life and silver spend thou freelyIf thou honourest the soul.480 POEMS.Haste into the other life;All is vain save God alone.Give me, boy, this toy of Dæmons:When the cup of Jam was lost,Him availed the world no more.Fetch the wineglass made of ice;Wake the torpid heart with wine.Every clod of loam beneath us Is a skull of Alexander;Oceans are the blood of princes;Desert sands the dust of beauties.More than one Darius was there Who the whole world overcame;But, since these gave up the ghost,Thinkest thou they never were?Boy, go from me to the Shah;Say to him, ' Shah, crowned as Jam,Win thou first the poor man's heart,Then the glass; so know the world.Empty sorrows from the earthCanst thou drive away with wine.Now in thy throne's recent beauty,In the flowing tide of power,Moon of fortune, mighty king,Whose tiara sheddeth lustre,Peace secure to fish and fowl,Heart and eye- sparkle to saints; -Shoreless is the sea of praise;I content me with a prayer:—From Nisami's lyric page,Fairest ornament of speech,Here a verse will I recite,Verse more beautiful than pearls:66 More kingdoms wait thy diadem Than are known to thee by name;Thee may sovereign DestinyLead to victory day by day!"'GHASELLE:FROM THE PERSIAN OF HAFIZ.F Paradise, O hermit wise,Of old therein our names of sinAllah recorded not.GHASELLE. 481Who dear to God on earthly sodNo corn-grain plants,The same is glad that life is had,Though corn he wants.O just fakir, with brow austere,Forbid me not the vine;On the first day, poor Hafiz' clayWas kneaded up with wine.Thy mind the mosque and cool kiosk,Spare fast and orisons;Mine me allows the drinking-house,And sweet chase of the nuns.He is no dervise, Heaven slights his service,Who shall refuseThere in the banquet to pawn his blanket For Schiraz' juice.Who his friend's skirt or hem of his shirtShall spare to pledge,To him Eden's bliss and angel's kiss Shall want their edge.Up! Hafiz, grace from high God's face Beams on thee pure;Shy thou not hell, and trust thou well,Heaven is secure.XENOPHANES.OY fate, not option, frugal Nature gaveOne sound to pine-groves and to waterfalls,One aspect to the desert and the lake.It was her stern necessity: all thingsAre of one pattern made; bird, beast, and flower,Song, picture, form, space, thought, and character,Deceive us, seeming to be many things,And are but one. Beheld far off, they partAs God and devil; bring them to the mind,They dull its edge with their monotony.To know one element, explore another,And in the second reappears the first.The specious panorama of a yearBut multiplies the image of a day, -A belt of mirrors round a taper's flame;And universal Nature, through her vast And crowded whole, an infinite paroquet,Repeats one note.VOL. I. 2 I482 POEMS.THE DAY'S RATION.WHEN I was born,From all the seas of strength Fate filled a chalice,Saying, 'This be thy portion, child; this chalice,Less than a lily's, thou shalt daily drawFrom my great arteries, nor less, nor more.'All substances the cunning chemist TimeMelts down into that liquor of my life,-Friends, foes, joys, fortunes, beauty, and disgust.And whether I am angry or content,Indebted or insulted, loved or hurt,All he distils into sidereal wineAnd brims my little cup; heedless, alas!Of all he sheds how little it will hold,How much runs over on the desert sands.If a new Muse draw me with splendid ray,And I uplift myself into its heaven,The needs of the first sight absorb my blood,And all the following hours of the dayDrag a ridiculous age.To-day, when friends approach, and every hourBrings book, or star- bright scroll of genius,The little cup will hold not a bead more,And all the costly liquor runs to waste;Nor gives the jealous lord one diamond drop So to be husbanded for poorer days.Why need I volumes, if one word suffice?Why need I galleries, when a pupil's draught After the master's sketch fills and o'erfillsMy apprehension? why seek Italy,Who cannot circumnavigate the seaOf thoughts and things at home, but still adjournThe nearest matters for a thousand days?BLIGHT.GIVE me truths;For I am weary of the surfaces,And die of inanition . If I knewOnly the herbs and simples of the wood,Rue, cinquefoil, gill, vervain, and agrimony,Blue-vetch, and trillium, hawkweed, sassafras,BLIGHT. 483Milkweeds, and murky brakes, quaint pipes, and sundew,And rare and virtuous roots, which in these woodsDraw untold juices fromthe common earth,Untold, unknown, and I could surely smellTheir fragrance, and their chemistry apply By sweet affinities to human flesh,Driving the foe and stablishing the friend, -O, that were much, and I could be a part Of the round day, related to the sun And planted world, and full executor Of their imperfect functions.But these young scholars, who invade our hills,Bold as the engineer who fells the wood,And travelling often in the cut he makes,Love not the flower they pluck, and know it not,And all their botany is Latin names.The old men studied magic in the flowers,And human fortunes in astronomy,And an omnipotence in chemistry,Preferring things to names, for these were men,Were unitarians of the united world,And, wheresoever their clear eye-beams fell,They caught the footsteps of the SAME. Our eyes Are armed, but we are strangers to the stars,And strangers to the mystic beast and bird,And strangers to the plant and to the mine.The injured elements say, ' Not in us;'And night and day, ocean and continent,Fire, plant, and mineral say, ' Not in us,'And haughtily return us stare for stare.For we invade them impiously for gain;We devastate them unreligiously,And coldly ask their pottage, not their love.Therefore they shove us from them, yield to us Only what to our griping toil is due;But the sweet affluence of love and song,The rich results of the divine consentsOf man and earth, of world beloved and lover,The nectar and ambrosia, are withheld;And in the midst of spoils and slaves, we thievesAnd pirates of the universe, shut out Daily to a more thin and outward rind,Turn pale and starve. Therefore, to our sick eyes,The stunted trees look sick, the summer short,Clouds shade the sun, which will not tan our hay,And nothing thrives to reach its natural term;And life, shorn of its venerable length,484 POEMS.Even at its greatest space is a defeat,And dies in anger that it was a dupe;And, in its highest noon and wantonness,Is early frugal, like a beggar's child;Even in the hot pursuit of the best aimsAnd prizes of ambition, checks its hand,Like Alpine cataracts frozen as they leaped,Chilled with a miserly comparisonOf the toy's purchase with the length of life.BEMUSKETAQUID.ECAUSE I was content with these poor fields,Low, open meads, slender and sluggish streams,And found a home in haunts which others scorned,The partial wood- gods overpaid my love,And granted me the freedom of their state,And in their secret senate have prevailedWith the dear, dangerous lords that rule our life,Made moon and planets parties to their bond,And through my rock-like, solitary wontShot million rays of thought and tenderness.For me, in showers, in sweeping showers, the spring Visits the valley; -break away the clouds, -I bathe in the morn's soft and silvered air,And loiter willing by yon loitering stream.Sparrows far off, and nearer, April's bird,Blue- coated,-flying before from tree to tree,Courageous, sing a delicate overtureTo lead the tardy concert of the year.Onward and nearer rides the sun of May;And wide around, the marriage of the plants Is sweetly solemnized. Then flows amainThe surge of summer's beauty; dell and crag,Hollow and lake, hill- side, and pine arcade,Are touched with genius. Yonder ragged cliff Has thousand faces in a thousand hours.Beneath low hills, in the broad intervalThrough which at will our Indian rivulet Winds mindful still of sannup and of squaw,Whose pipe and arrow oft the plough unburies,Here in pine houses built of new fallen trees,Supplanters of the tribe, the farmers dwell.Traveller, to thee, perchance, a tedious road,MUSKETAQUID. 485Or, it may be, a picture; to these men,The landscape is an armoury of powers,Which, one by one, they know to draw and use.They harness beast, bird, insect, to their work;They prove the virtues of each bed of rock,And, like the chemist mid his loaded jars,Draw from each stratum its adapted useTo drug their crops or weapon their arts withal.They turn the frost upon their chemic heap,They set the wind to winnow pulse and grain,They thank the spring-flood for its fertile slime,And, on cheap summit- levels of the snow,Slide with the sledge to inaccessible woods O'er meadows bottomless. So, year by year,They fight the elements with elements,(That one would say, meadow and forest walked,Transmuted in these men to rule their like),And by the order in the field discloseThe order regnant in the yeoman's brain.What these strong masters wrote at large in miles,I followed in small copy in my acre;For there's no rood has not a star above it;The cordial quality of pear or plumAscends as gladly in a single tree As in broad orchards resonant with bees;And every atom poises for itself,And for the whole. The gentle deities Showed me the lore of colours and of sounds,The innumerable tenements of beauty,The miracle of generative force,Far-reaching concords of astronomyFelt in the plants, and in the punctual birds;Better, the linked purpose of the whole,And, chiefest prize, found I true libertyIn the glad home plain-dealing nature gaveThe polite found me impolite; the greatWould mortify me, but in vain; for still I am a willow of the wilderness,Loving the wind that bent me. All my hurts My garden spade can heal. A woodland walk,Aquest of river- grapes, a mocking thrush,Awild rose, or rock-loving columbine,Salve my worst wounds.For thus the wood-gods murmured in my ear:'Dost love our manners? Canst thou silent lie?Canst thou, thy pride forgot, like nature pass486 POEMS.Into the winter night's extinguished mood?Canst thou shine now, then darkle,And being latent feel thyself no less?As, when the all-worshipped moon attracts the eye,The river, hill, stems, foliage, are obscure,Yet envies none, none are unenviable.'DIRGE.NOWS ne who tills this lonely field,ΚΑTo reap its scanty corn,What mystic fruit his acres yieldAt midnight and at morn?In the long sunny afternoon,The plain was full of ghosts;I wandered up, I wandered down,Beset by pensive hosts.The winding Concord gleamed below,Pouring as wide a floodAs when my brothers, long ago,Came with me to the wood.But they are gone the holy ones Who trod with me this lovely vale;The strong, star-bright companions Are silent, low, and pale.My good, my noble, in their prime,Who made this world the feast it was,Who learned with me the lore of time,Who loved this dwelling-place!They took this valley for their toy,They played with it in every mood;A cell for prayer, a hall for joy- They treated nature as they would.They coloured the horizon round;Stars flamed and faded as they bade;All echoes hearkened for their soundThey made the woodlands glad or mad.I touch this flower of silken leaf,Which once our childhood knew;Its soft leaves wound me with a grief Whose balsam never grew.THRENODY. 487Hearken to yon pine- warbler Singing aloft in the tree!Hearest thou, O traveller,What he singeth to me?Not unless God made sharp thine earWith sorrow such as mine,Out of that delicate lay could'st thou Its heavy tale divine.' Go, lonely man,' it saith;"They loved thee from their birth;Their hands were pure, and pure their faith, -There are no such hearts on earth.'Ye drew one mother's milk,One chamber held ye all;Avery tender historyDid in your childhood fall.'Ye cannot unlock your heart,The key is gone with them;The silent organ loudest chants The master's requiem.'THRENODY.THE South-wind brings Life, sunshine, and desire,And on every mount and meadow Breathes aromatic fire;But over the dead he has no power,The lost, the lost, he cannot restore;And, looking over the hills, I mournThe darling who shall not return.I see my empty house,I see my trees repair their boughs;And he, he wondrous child,Whose silver warble wildOutvalued every pulsing sound Within the air's cerulean roundThe hyacinthine boy, for whomMorn well might break and April bloom- The gracious boy, who did adorn The world whereinto he was born,488 POEMS.And by his countenance repayThe favour of the loving DayHas disappeared from the Day's eye;Far and wide she cannot find him;My hopes pursue, they cannot bind him.Returned this day, the south wind searches,And finds the young pines and budding birches;But finds not the budding man;Nature, who lost, cannot remake him;Fate let him fall, Fate can't retake him;Nature, Fate, men, him seek in vain.And whither now, my truant wise and sweet,O, whither tend thy feet?I had the right, few days ago,Thy steps to watch, thy place to know;How have I forfeited the right?Hast thou forgot me in a new delight?I hearken for thy household cheer,O eloquent child!Whose voice, an equal messenger,Conveyed thy meaning mild.What though the pains and joys Whereof it spoke were toysFitting his age and ken,Yet fairest dames and bearded men,Who heard the sweet request,So gentle, wise, and grave,Bended with joy to his behest,And let the world's affairs go by,Awhile to share his cordial game,Or mend his wicker waggon-frame,Still plotting how their hungry ear That winsome voice again might hear;For his lips could well pronounceWords that were persuasions.Gentlest guardians marked sereneHis early hope, his liberal mien:Took counsel from his guiding eyesTo make this wisdom earthly wise.Ah, vainly do these eyes recall The school- march, each day's festival,When every morn my bosom glowed To watch the convoy on the road;The babe in willow waggon closed,With rolling eyes and face composed;THRENODY. 489With children forward and behind,Like Cupids studiously inclined;And he the chieftain paced beside,The centre of the troop allied,With sunny face of sweet repose,To guard the babe from fancied foes.The little captain innocentTook the eye with him as he went Each village senior paused to scanAnd speak the lovely caravan.From the window I look outTo mark thy beautiful parade,Stately marching in cap and coatTo some tune by fairies played; —A music heard by thee alone To works as noble led thee on.

Now Love and Pride, alas! in vain,Up and down their glances strain,The painted sled stands where it stoodThe kennel by the corded wood;The gathered sticks to stanch the wallOf the snow-tower, when snow should fall;The ominous hole he dug in the sand,And childhood's castles built or planned;His daily haunts I well discern, -The poultry-yard, the shed, the barn, —And every inch of garden groundPaced by the blessed feet around,From the roadside to the brookWhereinto he loved to look.Step the meek birds where erst they ranged;The wintry garden lies unchanged;The brook into the stream runs on;But the deep- eyed boy is gone.On that shaded day,Dark with more clouds than tempests are,When thou didst yield thy innocent breath In birdlike heavings unto death,Night came, and Nature had not thee;I said, ' We are mates in misery.'The morrow dawned with needless glow;Each snowbird chirped, each fowl must crow;Each tramper started; but the feet Of the most beautiful and sweet490 POEMS.Of human youth had left the hillAnd garden, —they were bound and still.There's not a sparrow or a wren,There's not a blade of autumn grain,Which the four seasons do not tend,And tides of life and increase lend;And every chick of every bird,And weed and rock-moss is preferred.O ostrich- like forgetfulness!O loss of larger in the less!Was there no star that could be sent,No watcher in the firmament,No angel from the countless hostThat loiters round the crystal coast,Could stoop to heal that only child,Nature's sweet marvel undefiled,And keep the blossom of the earth,Which all her harvests were not worth?Not mine,-I never called thee mine,But Nature's heir, -if I repine,And seeing rashly torn and movedNot what I made, but what I loved,Grow early old with grief that thou Must to the wastes of Nature go,—'Tis because a general hopeWas quenched, and all must doubt and grope.For flattering planets seemed to say This child should ills of ages stay,By wondrous tongue, and guided pen,Bring the flown Muses back to men.Perchance not he but Nature ailed,The world and not the infant failed.It was not ripe yet to sustainAgenius of so fine a strain,Who gazed upon the sun and moon As if he came unto his own,And, pregnant with his grander thought,Brought the old order into doubt.His beauty once their beauty tried;They could not feed him, and he died,And wandered backward as in scorn,To wait an æon to be born.Ill day which made this beauty waste,Plight broken, this high face defaced!Some went and came about the dead;And some in books of solace read;THRENODY. 491Some to their friends the tidings say;Some went to write, some went to pray;One tarried here, there hurried one;But their heart abode with none.Covetous death bereaved us all,To aggrandize one funeral.The eager fate which carried theeTook the largest part of me:For this losing is true dying;This is lordly man's down-lying,This his slow but sure reclining,Star by star his world resigning.O child of paradise,Boy who made dear his father's home,In whose deep eyesMen read the welfare of the times to come,I am too much bereft.The world dishonoured thou hast left.O truth's and nature's costly lie!O trusted broken prophecy!O richest fortune sourly crossed!Born for the future, to the future lost!The deep Heart answered, ' Weepest thou?Worthier cause for passion wild If I had not taken the child.And deemest thou as those who pore,With aged eyes, short way before, -Think'st Beauty vanished from the coastOf matter, and thy darling lost?Taught he not thee-the man of eld,Whose eyes within his eyes beheldHeaven's numerous hierarchy spanThe mystic gulf from God to man?To be alone wilt thou begin When worlds of lovers hem thee in?To-morrow, when the masks shall fallThat dizen Nature's carnival,The pure shall see by their own will,Which overflowing Love shall fill,"Tis not within the force of fateThe fate-conjoined to separate.But thou, my votary, weepest thou?I gave thee sight-where is it now?I taught thy heart beyond the reach Of ritual, bible, or of speech;492 POEMS.Wrote in thy mind's transparent table,As far as the incommunicable;Taught thee each private sign to raise,Lit bythe supersolar blaze.Past utterance, and past belief,And past the blasphemy of grief,The mysteries of Nature's heart;And though no Muse can these impart,Throb thine with Nature's throbbing breast,And all is clear from east to west.'I came to thee as to a friend;Dearest, to thee I did not sendTutors, but a joyful eye,Innocence that matched the sky,Lovely locks, a form of wonder,Laughter rich as woodland thunder,That thou might'st entertain apartThe richest flowering of all art:And, as the great all-loving DayThrough smallest chambers takes its way,That thou might'st break thy daily breadWith prophet, saviour, and head;That thou might'st cherish for thine own The riches of sweet Mary's Son,Boy- Rabbi, Israel's paragon.And thoughtest thou such guestWould in thy hall take up his rest?Would rushing life forget her laws,Fate's glowing revolution pause?High omens ask diviner guess;Not to be conned to tediousness.And know my higher gifts unbind The zone that girds the incarnate mind.When the scanty shores are fullWith Thought's perilous, whirling pool;When frail Nature can no more,Then the Spirit strikes the hour:My servant Death, with solving rite,Pours finite into infinite.'Wilt thou freeze love's tidal flow,Whose streams through nature circling go?Nail the wild star to its trackOn the half- climbed zodiac?Light is light which radiates,Blood is blood which circulates,Life is life which generates,THRENODY. 493And many-seeming life is one,—Wilt thou transfix and make it none?Its onward force too starkly pentIn figure, bone, and lineament?Wilt thou, uncalled, interrogate,Talker! the unreplying Fate?Nor see the genius of the whole Ascendant in the private soul,Beckon it when to go and come,Self- announced its hour of doɔm?Fair the soul's recess and shrine,Magic-built to last a season;Masterpiece of love benign,Fairer that expansive reasonWhose omen 'tis, and sign.Wilt thou not ope thy heart to know What rainbows teach, and sunsets show?Verdict which accumulatesFrom lengthening scroll of human fates,Voice of earth to earth returned,Prayers of saints that inly burned, —Saying, What is excellent,As God lives, is permanent;Hearts are dust, hearts' loves remain;Heart's love will meet thee again.Revere the Maker; fetch thine eyeUp to his style, and manners of the sky.Not of adamant and gold Built he heaven stark and cold;No, but a nest of bending reeds,Flowering grass, and scented weeds;Or like a traveller's fleeing tent,Or bow above the tempest bent;Built of tears and sacred flames,And virtue reaching to its aims;Built of furtherance and pursuing,Not of spent deeds, but of doing.Silent rushes the swift LordThrough ruined systems still restored,Broadsowing, bleak and void to bless,Plants with worlds the wilderness;Waters with tears of ancient sorrowApples of Eden ripe to-morrow.House and tenant go to ground.Lost in God, in Godhead found.'494 POEMS.HYMN:SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE CONCORD MONUMENT,BYApril 19th, 1836.Y the rude bridge that arched the flood,Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,Here once the embattled farmers stood,And fired the shot heard round the world.The foe long since in silence slept;Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.On this green bank, by this soft stream,We set to-day a votive stone;That memory may their deed redeem,When, like our sires, our sons are gone.Spirit, that made those heroes dareTo die, and leave their children free,Bid Time and Nature gently spareThe shaft we raise to them and thee.END OF VOL. I.LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS. STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.

Front matter and index

LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.

THE COMPLETE WORKS OF RALPH WALDO EMERSONCOMPRISINGHIS ESSAYS, LECTURES, POEMS, ANDORATIONS.IN TWO VOLUMES.VOLUME I.LONDON:BELL & DALDY, 6, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN,AND 186, FLEET STREET.1866.162089-B

CONTENTS.ESSAYS:-I. HISTORYII. SELF-RELIANCEIII. COMPENSATIONIV. -SPIRITUAL LAWSV.-LOVE •VI.-FRIENDSHIPVII. -PRUDENCEVIII.-HEROISMIX. THE OVER- SOULX.-CIRCLESXI.-INTELLECTXII.-ART ·XIII. THE POETXIV. -EXPERIENCEXV. -CHARACTERXVI. -MANNERSXVII. GIFTSXVIII.-NATUREXIX. POLITICS·XX.-NOMINALIST AND REALISTPAGE1183955718092102111125!134145154172191203220223236247vi CONTENTS.LECTURES:-NEW ENGLAND REFORMERSREPRESENTATIVE MEN:-PAGE258I.-USES OF GREAT MENII. —PLATO; OR, THE PHILOSOPHERPLATO NEW READINGS •III. -SWEDENBORG; OR, THE MYSTIC274288306311IV. -MONTAIGNE; OR, THE SCEPTIC 335V. -SHAKESPEARE; OR, THE POET 352VI. NAPOLEON; OR, THE MAN OF THE WORLD 366VII. -GOETHE; OR, THE WRITER 382POEMS:-THE SPHINXEACH AND ALLTHE PROBLEMTO RHEATHE VISIT396399400402403URIEL 404THE WORLD- SOUL 405ALPHONSO OF CASTILE 408MITHRIDATES 410TO J. W. 411FATE 411GUYTACT•HAMATREYA413414414EARTH-SONG 415GOOD-BYE •416THE RHODORA 417THE HUMBLE-BEE 417' BERRYING 419THE SNOW-STORM 419CONTENTS. viiPOEMS

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I.-WOODNOTESII.-WOODNOTESMONADNOC420423432FABLE 441ODE 441ASTREA 444ETIENNE DE LA BOÈCE 445SUUM CUIQUE 445COMPENSATIONFORBEARANCETHE PARKFORERUNNERS446446446447SURSUM CORDA 447ODE TO BEAUTY•448GIVE ALL TO LOVE 450TO ELLEN 451TO EVA 452THE AMULET 453THINE EYES STILL SHINED 453EROS· 453HERMIONE 454INITIAL, DÆMONIC, AND CELESTIAL LOVE 456THE APOLOGY 465I.-MERLIN 466II.-MERLINBACCHUSLOSS AND GAINMEROPSTHE HOUSE468469471471471SAADI·472HOLIDAYS·PAINTING AND SCULPTUREFROM THE PERSIAN OF HAFIZ476477477viii CONTENTS.POEMS:-GHASELLEXENOPHANESTHE DAY'S RATIONBLIGHTMUSKETAQUIDDIRGETHRENODYHYMN: SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE CONCORDMONUMENT ·PAGE480481482482484486487494

See also

• Ralph Waldo Emerson

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