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THE COlVIPLETE ESSAYS AND 01"HER WRI1"ING S OF

RALPH 'WALDO

EMERSON Edited, with a B iograj)/zical Introduction BY BHOOI(S ATICt NSON ~

FOHEWOHD BY THEl\IAINE McDOWELL l)r(~ress()r

qf l~:IIKlislt and (,'Izairnuln (if l1'lJerirall Stur/ies, University (if Alinllcs()ta

The Modern Libr(,t1Y ~Ne'w York

Copj1right, 1940~ 1950,

Ra'tldoln

THE BE.~NETT

House

by Random House, Inc.

IS THE PUBLISHER OF

1''1 0 D ERN

A. CERF

LIBRARY

DONALD 5. KLOPFER

ROBERT K. HAAS

i\lanufactul"ed in the United States of Anwrica

CONTENTS PAG}1:' •

FOREWORD BY TREMAINE lVlcDo'VELL

IX

INTRODUCTION BY BROOI{S ATKINSON

Xl

NATURE

3 4S 67

THE AMERICAN SCHOLAR

AN

ADDRESS

87 10 7

THE TRANSCENDENTALIST

THE LORD'S SUPPER ESSAYS: FIRST SERIES

History

123

Self.. Reliance

14.5

Compensation

170

Spiritual Laws

190

Love Friendship

210

222

PrudencE"

237

Heroism The Over-Soul Circles Intellect Art

249 261

279 292

30 5

ESSAYS: SECOND SERms

The Poet Experience

319 34 2

Character Manners Gifts Nature Politics Nominalist and Realist New England Reformers

3 65 3 81 402 40 6

422

435 v

449

-

coNTENTS

VI

PACE PLATO; OR, THE PHILOSOPHER NAPOLEON; OR 1 THE

11AN

OF THE WORLD

471 501

ENGLISH TRAITS

1- First \'isit to England It ';7oyage to England III. Land 1\7. Race

v.

\rl. VII.

VIII. IX.

x.

Ability 11anners Truth Character Cockayne

'\iealth XI. Aristocracy XII. 1Iniversities XIII. Religion XIV. Literature X~l.

"The Times" X\lI. Stonehenge

XVII. Personal XVIII. Result XIX. Speech at Manchester

52 3 535 539

545 561 577 584

59 0 599 604 014

62 9 037 646 66r

668 67 8

682 087

CONDUCT 'OF LIFE

Wealth Culture SOCIETY AND SOLITUDE FARMING

693 71 7

739 749

POEMS

Good-Bye The Problem

Uriel The Rhodora

The Humble-Bee The Snow-Storm Ode

76 r 762

764 765

766 768 769

...

CONTENTS

VlJ

PAGE POEMS ( Continued)

Forbearance Forerunners Give All to Love Threnody Concord Hymn . May-Day The Adirondacs Brahma Merlin's Song Hymn nays Character Walden Lines to Ellen Self-Reliance Webster

77 2 77 2 773 775 783 784 799 80 9 80 9 811 812 812 812

814

THE FUGITIVE SLAVE LAW

815 816 81 9 83 1 861

JOHN BROWN

879

THE EMANCIPATION PROCLAMATION

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

885 895 91 7

CARJ.,YLE

~2';

EZRA RIPLEY,

D.D.

EMANCIPATION IN THE BR.ITISH WEST

THOREAU

INDms

FOREWORD By

TREMAINE

McDoWELL

Emerson insisted more than a century ago, are for the student's idle hours; let him read only when he cannot think for himself. Colleges likewise are secondary or even tertiary for man thinking; they look backward and not forward; "they pin me down." But Emerson believed also that greatness appeals its case to the future. Ironically enough, his own assault on posterity has been so successful that twentieth-century Americans turn from their own thinking to read his essays and, no less paradoxically, our colleges make his writings part of their curricula. Thus professors of literature agree with Matthiessen of Harvard when he credits Emerson with a frontal attack on the major problem of the artist, nanlely, how shall he simultaneously express himself and communicate with society. Professors of social history nod assent when Gabriel of Yale characterizes him as the Isaiah of his age. And professors of philosophy, even though they often deny that Emerson is a systematic philosopher, merely raise an eyebrow when Dewey of Columbia praises him as master of a finely wrought logic and as the philosopher of democracy. These paradoxes, however, would cause Emerson no distress if he were living today; he believed that books and colleges when rightly used can accomplish an indispensable end. But they serve us only "when they aim not to drill but to create"-when they gather frolll afar every ray of genius and, by their concentrated fires, set the Ileart of man on flame. Emerson's o'vn utterances were and are provocative, at times even infiamlnatory. (Ludwig Lewisohn remarked that opinions HOOKS,

.

lX

X

F'ORE WORD

much less subversive of the political and the moral order than Emerson held have repeatedly sent men to jail or into exile.) Or in his own words, "Your goodness must have some edge to it." His doctrines of edged and dangerous goodness Emerson underscored in his essays by reiteration and by paraphrase, driving home each point with the same quiet ins~stence that made hinl an unspectacular but unforgettable publIc lecturer. Occasional readers who take Emerson to be merely an an1iable clergyman writing platitudes may mistake abstractness of thought for its absence. Or they may be misled by the blandness with which Enlerson often presents his most explosive ideas. And they are perhaps further confused by his honest readiness to modify or contradict his own pronouncements when he comes upon a new aspect of truth. In reality Emerson was fronl the r830'S to the Civil War the most urbane deviser of intellect uaI bombshells in the United States. Today his pages are strewn ",ith harmless fragments of exploded shells but hidden an10ng them lie delayed action bombg which burst from time to time in the reader's face. When, for example, Emerson reconciles Christianity and the Romantic Movement by announcing that the universe has its center in God and at the same time in the individual mall, he may be fighting a long-lost battle. But his essays do more than supply materials for the study of the .~merican past. In them the reader finds not only pronouncements which once were wisdol11 and now are foolishness but dicta which are as valid in our century as they were in his. Envy is still ignorance and itnitation still suicide; artists are, as they were to Emerson, liberating gods who free man through symboIisnl; if we accept fate, we are still no less compelled to accept liberty. i\nd, since Emerson like his contemporaries Hawthorne and Melville wrote l1lore wisely than he knew, his essays carry meanings decipherable only by the future. Emerson, in other words, must be approached critically. To aU docile readers trained to accept the voice of authority, he says: Lay this volume down. You had better never see my essays than to be warped by their attraction out of your own orbit and made my satellite.

INTRODUCTION By

BROOKS ATKINSON

I was the first philosopher of the Ameri~ can spirit. Although America had won its political independence twenty-two years before he was born it still took its culture from abroad. Cooper was writing in the tradition of Scott; Washington Irving was writing in the style of Addison. Emerson lived his early life in an expansionist period when Americans were pushing west in unprecedented numbers and acting upon the principle of democracy with considerable swagger and gusto. Complete independence in spirit as well as in fact was everywhere in the air. President Monroe had given public notice of it in his Doctrine of I823. Clay had boldly declared: "We look too much abroad, .•. Let us become real and true Americans." What the statesmen had already accomplisbed in the sphere of politics Emerson applied to culture, not by action, but by exhortation and radiance. "Our age is retrospective," he said in the introduction to his first book in 1836. "Why should not we alsu enjoy an original relation to the universe? Why should not we have a poetry and philosophy of insight and not of tradition and a religion by revelation to us? ... Let us demand our own works and laws and worship." In a courageous address on "The American Scholar" in the next year he said: "We have listened too long to the courtly muses of Europe"; and he counseled the scholars assembled in Cambridge to live and think like free men. In the next year he spoke out against formalism and tradition in reli .. gion. What he said in that address was so abhorrent to many people in Boston and Cambridge that nearly thirty years went by before Harvard University felt that he was a safe man to have around again. RALPH WALDO EMERSON

xi

xii

INTRODUCTION

N at that he had a program of action or a system of thought. He was a poetic philosopher who trusted inspiration more than reason, and he was always painfully aware of a lack of continuity in his lectures and essays. He could not argue. As much as pas. . sible he avoided speaking on matters of current importance, for he believed that his talents were for enlightenment ill general. But spiritually and intellectually he was a man of such freedom, personally he was a man of such exalted character that his influence was great and wide and he enkindled the minds of men and women all around the world. He wa5 a man of deliberate affirmations. Since his basic topic was the infinite capacities of the pri... vate man, partaking of the whole range of the universe, his ,¥rit. . ings remain as fresh as they were when he laboriously assembled them out of random thoughts and evanescent flashes of insight.

II Strictly speaking, he was a radical. But it was hard to think so, for he was mild, frail, friendly and of civil demeanor, and he lived quietly in Concord, Mass., like the most respected of citizens. He came of a long line of New England clergymen and was a member of a family that instinctively inclined toward the ministry. He was born in Boston on May 25, 1803, son of the pastor of the Second Church and one of five brothers. His father died eight years later: Although his mother was left with a growing fami1y and in desperate financial circumstances, she was a woman of great singleness of purpose and she determined that her boys should be educated. She succeeded. Four of them went through college, each one helping the next one who was ready. It was a hard, driving life that doubtless left-its mark on the health of the children, for two of them died when they were still young men. Ralph's health was never vigorous; on two occasions it was dangerously bad, and his elder brother was never wholly free from pain and physical anxiety. Apparently the Emerson stock was not robust in Ralph's generation. A brother and sister died as children; another brother never mentally matured. The priva·. tions of the Emerson family after the death of Emerson's father bore particularly hard 6n unsound constitutions.

INTRODUCTION

...

XU1

Emerson entered Harvard College in 1817 at the age of fourteen. Although he was in the upper half of his class he did not distinguish himself. He was graduated in 1821. For four years he helped his brother teach a finishing school for young ladies in Boston. After teaching school in other communities he entered Harvard Divinity School, but weak lungs and eyes and rheumatism interrupted his education for the ministry almost at once and he had to spend a winter recuperating in the South. After completing his education, in 1829, he was ordained as assistant pastor of the Second Church, where his father had preached, and soon succeeded the pastor in full charge of the parish. At this time he married Ellen Tucker of Concord, N. H., but she lived only a year and a half afterward. The formal customs of religious observance had always been somewhat distasteful to Emerson. In 1832 he announced to his congregation that he could no longer administer the sacrament conscientiously because be did not believe that Christ had intended it as a general, regular observance. The sermon he preached on that subject is included in this vol.. ume. Although he was well liked in his parish, the church decided that it could not dispense with the Lord's Supper, and Emerson resigned in circumstances that were friendly on both sides. Disappointed in his professional life, troubled by the death of his wife and also the death of one of his brothers and in poor health himself, he sailed for Italy in the winter. The trip restored his health. It also stimulated his mind. He took joy in the great art treasures of Italy; he visited Landor, whose writing he ad.. mired. In England he sought out Coleridge, Wordsworth and Carlyle, whose works had especially interested him. The visit to Carlyle was a signal event in his life, for he found Carlyle as stim.. ulating and congenial in person as he was in his works. Returning to America in good health a year later he finally settled in Con. . cord, where his step"'grandfather, Dr. Ezra Ripley, was living in the Old Manse. Presently Emerson bought a house and land on the Boston Post Road, married Lidian Jackson of Plymouth and settled down to a happy life that developed into a great career~ He was thirty-two years old. All the privations of his early life and the spiritual conflicts of his prnfessionallife were over. For

XIV

INTRODUCTION

the next forty-seven years he grew in grace and wisdom and ministered to the world. Concord was the ideal town for him. It was beautiful. It indulged the love of nature that lay at the bottom of his philosophy. It had an honorable place in the story of America's fight for independence; the battle of Concord had been fought near the Old Manse, and Emerson's imagination was exhilarated by the illustrious history of the town. The social life in Concord was also attractive. During his lifetime it included Bronson Alcott, the Orphic schoolmaster, Nathaniel Hawthorne, the shy, reclusive novelist, Henry Thoreau, the bachelor of nature, William Ellery Channing, the poet and conversationalist, such worthies as Samuel Hoar and Judge E. R. Hoar, Edmund Hosmer, the highminded farmer, and Rev. Ezra Ripley, the powerful and conscientious parson. Emerson took an active part in town life. He was elected hogreeve when'he first settled in Concot.:d. He was a member of the Fire Association; the leather buckets and baize bag always hung over the stairs in the side entry, and in company with his neigh. . bors he fought wood fires with pine boughs. When he was still new to the town he delivered one of the most important historical addresses at the two-hundredth anniversary of the settlement of Concord. Occasionally he supplied the local pulpit. The Sunday school teachers met with Mrs. Emerson in their front parlor. i\.S a director of the Concord Athenaeum he helped maintain a public reading room where newspapers and magazines were kept on file. By keeping the Lyceum active he and Thoreau stimulated the intellectual life of Concord. His whole being flourished there. He planted a garden and worked in it, begrudging the time he had to spend in the study, He planted an orchard of which he was inordinately proud. Eventually he bought more land and ran a little farm with hired labor. Falling in love with the Walden woods he bought a tract of land there purely for enjoyment. Thoreau built his celebrated hermit.. age in Emerson's woods. Concord was also near Boston which dominated the intellectual life of America in those days. The stagecoach lumbered by Emerson's house and r{;ached Boston in

INTRODUCTION

xv

two or three hours; and presently the Fitchburg Railroad brought Boston much nearer. Altogether Concord was an ideal community for a man of Emerson's temperament. He loved it in his youth when he visited Dr. Ripley at the Old l\fanse; he always loved it, and in time Concord loved him as the grand old man of the town. When he first settled in his own house with his young wife, be filled pulpits here and there and made occasional addresses. But be had for some time been contemplating a poetic book of philosophy about the fundamental influence of Nature on the life of mankind. Nature, he called it simply. He finished and published it in 1836. Five hundred copies were published anonymously. Although Carlyle hailed it, especially as a ground-plan for great 'and true building, it was not enlhusiastically received and was not reprinted until 1847. But Emerson had begun his life's work. His address on "The American Scholar" before the Harvard Phi Beta Kappa Society in 1837 was a stirring event in the history of American culture. "Our intellectual Declaration of Independence," Oliver Wendell Holmes called it. It excited the young men particularly, and the address in printed form was eagerly bought in large numbers as soon as it appeared on the bookstalls. The next year Emerson addressed the graduating class of the Divinity School, disputing the true value of historical Christianity and inveighing against the formal and uninspired style of pulpit addresses. This criticism of the ministry and religious thought met with ~'ndignant opposition among the clergy. It was denounc€'~ as heresy. Emerson was branded an atheist, and he was no longer welcome in pulpits and on lecture platforms that had been hospitable to him. Although he took no part in the controversy that raged around his head for several months, he thought for a time that he might have to find a new way of life to support himself and his falnily. Eut he soon discovered that people would listen receptively on Wednesday to things that seemed like blasphemy on Sunday. He spent the rest of his life lecturing chiefly on spiritual and phil .. osophical subjects all over the country . During the sumn1ers he assembled his thoughts in the form of addresses. "Are you ill?"

~'CVl

INTRODUCTION

his wife inquired when he got up at dawn and stole out of the room. "No, only catching a thought," he replied. In the winters he read the lectures wherever he was invited-traveling by carriage, sleigh, canal boat, steamboat, and train through N e\v England, the Atlantic States and the l\1iddle West, staying in all sorts of primitive hotels, crossing the Mississippi on the ice, and keenly enjoying the developing life of the country. Although he was a man of slender body with sloping shoulders, he was an effective public speaker. His benign personality was attractive. His voice had astonishing volume. He was a generally recognized master of the art of oratory.

The life of lecturing was arduous; since Emerson was a poor business man and usually spoke for any fee that was offered he never earned much money_ But he was of a naturally hopeful temperament, easily believing the best of everything and he was buoyed up all his life by sublime faith. The duty of the scholar, he believed, was t'to -:beer, to raise and to guide men by showing them facts among appearances." As he traveled about the country, '~emptying his decanters and demijohns of popular wisdom," as he termed his lectures, he felt that he was enriching the lives of human beings and doing the work that suited his genius. When he had tried his lectures on various audiences he rewrote them as essays and published them in book form. Almost all his writings, e..l;:cept the poetry, were first spokeu from the lecture platform. Not everyone understood what he was talking about, or approved. Young people seemed to follow him more easily than their elders. A Boston attorney said Emerson's lectures "are utterly meaningless to me, but my daughters, aged 15 and 17, understand them thoroughly." "Do you understand Mr. Emerson?" lvlrs. Hoar inquired of a scrubwoman who always attended Emerson's lectures in Concord. "Not a word," the scrubwoman replied; "but I like to go and see him stand up there and look as though he thought everyone was as good as he was." A Concord fanner boasted that he had heard all of Emerson's lectures at the ~y~eum and "understood 'em, too." One of Concord's leading CItIzens understood them clearly enough to object to their radicalism. "There are only three persons so far as I know whose

INTRODUCTION

•• XVll

opinions are obnoxious to this community," he told Emerson on the street one day. ~~They are Theodore Parker, Wendell Phillips and-if I may be so candid-yourself, sir!" After more than ten years of exhausting scholarship and lecturtng, Einerson was very glad in 1847 to accept an invitation to read son1e of his lectures in England. He spent a year there. Traveling around England he had an opportunity to become intimately acquainted with Inany kinds of English people. As an American celebrity he was freely invited and cordially received in English homes. He renewed his old friendships, particularly with Carlyle, who had grown a little crusty through the years. He also visited France during a period of great political unrest. English Traits, which is at once a history and psychological an. . alysis of the English character, was the chief result of his busy year abroad. Although he was a lovable man, he was shy, modest and deficient in animal spirits, and he felt that he was too cold for social intercourse. During his school-teaching days his embarrass . . ment was painful and the students took humorous advantage of it. The personal visits expected of a pastor were also a trial for him. He did not dominate groups by force of personality. Hi~ best thinking was done in private. But the period in which he lived was one of extraordinary social ferment; reformers were dragging the world up by its roots and making cults out of eccentricities. That was the period of the philosophical committeesBrook Farm and Fruit-lands. As the leading transcendental philosopher of the day, Emerson was consulted and implored by everyone who had a new system, by the genuine prophets as well as the cranks and crackpots. They all came to his house, sat at his table and were hospitably received. But Emerson, having no taste for community enterprises, steadfastly dissociated hinlself from them. To him they seemed like one-sided affirmations. Politically he was reluctant. From the first he had believed that the slaves should be freed. But he avoided as long as possible the radical societies that were promoting abolition. When he was urged to take part in direct action he said: "I have my own spirits in prison-spirits in deeper prisons-whom no man visits if I do

...

XVlll

\,

INTRODUCTION

not." But as the slavery clamor increased Emerson began to join in it. When the Fugitive Slave Law was passed, and Emerson believed that his hero, Daniel Webster. had betrayed public trust, Emerson appeared at public meetings in Concord, Boston and New York and spoke with a bitterness strange in so serene a person. In spite of the fact that all ;his instincts were against taking part in political action and in spite of his distrust of his own knowledge of practical affairs, he actively associated himself with the cause of abolition after the Fugitive Slave Law was passed. Once he observed to one of his children, who had to write a school essay on building a house, that no house should be built without having in it a space to hide a runaway slave. He entertained John Brown ir! his house, contributed to the cause of abolition beyr .ld his means and spoke in defense of John Brown after Harper's Ferry. He was fifty-seven years of age when the Civil War broke out and he took no part in the fighting. In 1865 Emerson was invited to make the Phi Beta Kappa address at Harvard again. By this time Harvard had forgotten the scandal of the Baccalaureate Sermon of 1838. Shortly afterward he was selected as a member of the Board of Overseers. In 1870 and I87I he lectured on philosophy at Harvard. But be was well on in years; the strain of a lifetime of persistent intellectual activity had begun to tell on him. His memory was failing. He was approaching the end of a great career. In July, I 872, his house was partially destroyed by fire; he and Mrs. Emerson had to tun for their lives without having time to dress, and they overtaxed their strength in trying to save some of their possessions. The shock of this calamity was more than Emerson could throw off. It very nearly prostrated him. He was taken again to the Old ~fanse, where he had enjoyed himself as a boy, and a study was fitted up for him in the village. But it soon became apparent that he could not work. At length some of his friends intervened. They sent him to Egypt ,vith his daughter, Ellen, and during his absence they rebuilt and restored his house. 'V"hen he returned the next March, the town b~ns were rung and a great company of children, neighbors and fnends accompanied him from the railroad station and under a

INTRODUCTION

.

XIX

ttiurnphal arch to his new home. He settled down gratefully to prepare a book of essays he had promised to a London publisher, but he was no longer able to make progress with any sustained work. Eventually a friend, James Elliot Cabot, had to put the book together fronl many notes and lectures and get all of Emerson's papers in good order. Emerson lived a quiet and contented life with his family and friends until April, 1882, when he contracted pneumonia from walking in the rain without a hat or coat. He died on the evening of April 27th. Shortly after 9 o'clock that evening the bell on the Unitarian Church tolled seventy-nine strokes, which counted his age, to announce the doleful news throughout the village . Concord, where Emerson had lived as a neighbor for most of his life, knew that her greatest villager was gone. His death was national news; the editorial writers and obituary writers spun out many columns with information and critical esteem. Many distinguished friends came to the funeral on a special train from Boston. President Eliot of Harvard, Oliver Wenden Holmes, George William Curtis, Charles Eliot Norton were there; and Dr. W . H. Furness, the Philadelphia divine, and the Rev. James Freeman Clarke of Boston read Scripture at the service. But Concord, which loved Emerson as its grandest neighbor, was deeply affect.ed, and the funeral had a local atmospherer Dwelling houses, stores and public buildings were everywhere shrouded in black. In the afternoon, after the private service, thE' villagers followed the hearse from the large house on the Boston Post Road to the old church. Boughs from the pine trees that Emerson had worshiped were piled around the altar. The harp of yellow jonquils in the center was the remembrance of Louisa M. ' Alcott. Judge E. R. Hoar, who was not only a villager but an intjmate neighbor and a member of the famous Saturday Club, spoke for his townsmen in terms of personal affection. Bronson Alcott, the schoolmaster, who had inspired Emerson and pestered him for years, read a sonorous sonnet composed for the occasion . After the services were over, those who had succeeded in pressing into the church and those who had ruefully crowded about the doors outside filed slowly by the bier, where the lean. pointpt

xx

INTRODUCTION

features held their final serenity; and toward evening of a warm, bright April Sunday the procession moved up to Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, where Thoreau and Hawthorne were buried, and on up the hill, between uncovered lines formed by the Concord Social Circle, and Emerson was buried under a pine tree beside the graves of his mother and his son, Waldo. III In philosopby Emerson was a transcendentalist. He believed in the "over-soul "-the universal soul of which everything living was a part. Even in Emerson's own day the word "transcendentalism" was considered confusing, and the popular meaning of the word is still "vague, obscure, visionary." Scholars accustomed to exact knowledge could not make head or tail of Emerson's school of thought. That was not surprising. Transcendentalism had no system; it was more poetry than thought. "What is popularly called transcendentalism among us is idealism," Emerson once said. In contrast with the materialist, who reasoned from facts, history and the animal wants of man, the idealist believed in "the power of thought and of will, in inspiration,- in miracle, in individual culture." It was a centrifugal manifestation of faith in God. To a young country just beginning to enjoy its independence and lustily expanding in all directions this c;tyle of thinking was natural and satisfying. It believed that anything could be acconlplished. Systems of thought and methods of reasoning seemed stifling to people of exultant temperament who were looking on all the fruits of the earth and finding them good. It was easy for them to give their intuitions authority over experience. Not what had Been done but what might be done seemed to them the greater ~ruth. Life flowed into the transcendentalist from the flowers, the clouds, the birds, the SUD, the chill and warmth of the weather, the beauty of the evening, and from the farms, the shops and the railroads where life was stirring and good things seemed to be happening. Although Emerson's philosophy was not a system it had some. . thing of a plan in the way he developed it. His attitude toward life was based on his love of nature and is stated in his first book I

INTRODUCTION

XXI

Nature. A short book, published anonymously, it was generally dismissed by the reviewers as pantheistic rapture, charmingly written but without much significance. Yet it represented several years of deliberate thought when Emerson was trying to put his ideas in order. He began in the introduction with a definition of terms: "Nature, in the common sense, refers to essences unchanged by man; space, the air, the river, the leaf. Art is applied to the mixture of his will with the same things, as in a housl., a canal, a statue, a picture." He rejoiced that man is part of nature and that nature is his home. The most significant statement he made is that man becomes a part of God when he surrenders himself to association with nature: ".f become a transparent eyeball; I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part or parcel of God." The rest of Nature showed the connection between nature and civilization. Five years later Emerson published his first book of Essays; matie from lectures he had been reading chiefly in Boston. The new book contained the essay on "The Over-Soul" which may be regarded as the cornerstone of his faith. In the notes to the complete works, Emerson's son has pointed out that the first series of essays derive from a plan set down in the journals: There is one soul. It is related to the world. Art is its action thereon. Science finds its methods. Li tera ture is its record. Religion is the emotion of reverence that it inspires. Ethics is the soul illustrated in human life. Society is the finding of this soul by individuals in each other. Trades are the learning of the soul in nature by labor. Politics is the activity of the soul illustrated in power. Manners are silent a.nd mediate expressions of soul. Apparently Emerson did not lecture on "The Over-Soul" specifically. The essay as it appears in his writings was compiled and rewritten from statements in several related lectures. Early " in the essay Emerson accounts' for the beneficent usages of the soul in the habitual life of the world: ('We grant that human lite

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INTRODUCTIO~

is mean, but ho\v did we find out that it was nlca.t.1?} "fhe soul

sets up an jntuitive standard that distinguishes good from bad. From that assertion Emerson proceeds to a description of the Over-Soul: L'Vl e live in succession, in division, in parts, ~n particles. 11eantime within man is the soul of the whoJe; th~ wise silence; the universal beauty, to which every part and particle is equally related; the eternal ONE •••• We see the world pier.e by piece, as the sun~ the moon, the anilnai, the tree, but the whole, of which these are the shining parts, is the soul." From there it is a logical step to the fruits of the soul: "When it breathes througb [~an 's] intellect, it is genius; when it breathes through his will it is virtue; when it ploughs through his affection" it is love." And, finally, faith in the Over-Sonl gives man immense scope and gives every moment tremendous ~ignificance-"Man will come to see that the world is the perennial miracle which the soul workcrth, and be less astonished at particular wonders; he will learn that there is no profane history; that all history is sacmct; that the universe is represented in an atom, in a moment of time." Not everybody was willing to follow Emerson so far from the ~aterial world into the world of intuition. Identifying man with God seemed like heresy to some of the clergy. Others thought it was mere rhapsody or wishful thinking. And, of course, nlany .aardheaded men did not know what he was talking about. But the effect of this belief on Emerson was transcendent. To believe himself part of universal wisdom gave him a wonderful sense of freedom. It was the ultimate liberation. It was creative. Life seemed good fundamentally; nature and man could be trusted. Life was something not to be learned but to be lived. Now was the appointed hour for makin~ a fresh start. The doctrine was a receptive one. Better an imperfect theory, with glimpses of the truth, than digested systems that were dead. Emerson's faith was dynamic. And that was why he seemed to the young people of his time to be the great cultural liberator. He was always on the side of imaginative exploration. In "The American Scholar" he said the sole use of books is to !nspire:

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INTRODUCTION

• ••

XX111

;'One must be a creator to read well." The scholar's preoccupation wi'(h bookish learning seemed moribund to him. He urged the scholar to become a ma.n of action and learn directly from life: "Life is our dictionary. Years are well spent in country labors; in town; in the insight into trades and manufactures; in frank intercourse with many men and women; in science; !;'l art; to the end of mastering in all facts a language by which to illustrate and embody our perceptions." He enkindled the hearts of the young', divinity students ?lith the same criticism of institutions and the same invitation to life. Religion should have a corrJ.mOll accent away from the cloister: "The time is coming when all men will see that the gift of God to the soul is not a vaunting, overpowering, excluding sanctity, but a sweet, natural goodness, a goodness like thine and mine, and that so invites thine and mine to be and to grow." He complained that religion was treated in the pulpit "as if God were dead." If "The Over-Soul" is the cornerstone of Emerson's philosophy, the essay on "Self-Reliance" is his most ringing declaration ."i its meaning. Some of his essays are inconclusive and many of them are disorderly; not every subject pulled all his random reflections together. But in "Self-Reliance" he courageously exhorts his readers to act on their best impulses and to make no compromise with duty. ('To believe your own thought," he says, "to believe that what is true for you in your private heart is true for all men-is genius." It is natural for a man to behave with a certain nonchalance and disdain, he says. No lip-service to custom, he says; no weak philanthropy; no good action to appease popular conscience; no political affiliations; no terrified adherence to consistency. Society urges caution; social usages restrict freedom of action; conformity is convenient. But according to Emerson, "N otbing is at last sacred but the integrity of your own mind." Although he was a mild man personally, there is a pas.. sionate summons to independence in this paper. "Let a man then know his worth," he says, "and keep things under his feet . Let him not peep or steal, or skulk up and down with the air of a charity-boy, a bastard, or an interloper in the world which exist3

• XXIV

INTRODUCTION

for him." Have no regrets. Never imitate. "Nothing can bring you peace but yourself. Nothing can bring you peace but !he triumph of principles," he concluded. Years afterward a RussIan student was exiled to Siberia for having a copy of Emerson's l·Self-Reliance" in his possession. Some people criticized Emerson for being ingenuous. He seized people "by their best handles," they said, and too easily believed the best of them. '~\lhen his imagination went to work on the rail~ road or the electric. telegraph, which were new to his day, he foresaw a glorious future for them. When he considered the potentialities of the country, his hopes were-again-transcendent. "Gentlemen," he said to the Mercantile Library Association in Boston, "there is a sublime and friendly destiny by which the hu.."nan race is guided." Would he think so in the twentieth century? It is a speculative question, but the answer is easy. The answer is "Yes." For his contemplative affirmations, which suited the mood of America in his day, proceeded from his temperament. Habitually looking beyond particulars to the fundamental truths of nature and mankind he believed that "creation is here and now," as Thoreau expressed it. There were reasons enough for despair in his day. Politics were corrupt.l\tIaterialism possessed the hearts and souls of men. The country was still betraying the Indians. The Mexican War violated every just man's notions of decency. One of Emerson's idols, Daniel Webster, turned traitor to one of Emerson's causes. The great tragedy of the Civil War, when citizens of the same country killed one another, cut straight across Emerson '5 career. And the appalling pillag~ of the South after the war by opportunistic politicians and beady-eyed swindlers represented the low point in our national ethics. Ignorance and evil drew a black line through the life of America in Emerson's time and many of his contemporaries 'Yere filled with melancholy. He knew those things and suffered for them. After reading the newspapers he often walked to his Walden woods to restore his mind again and reorient himself in the universe. But nothing could shake his faith in the goodness of the universe. For he was ~nspired ....~ he traveled around the country with his worn lec . .

INTRODUCTION

xxv

ture bag and looked into the faces of Americans he could not help believing. Gentle, kindly and upright, he was the teacher of America. What he said and wrote is still the gospel we most easily understand.

A SHORT READING LIST

WORKS The C01nplete Works of Ralph Waldo El17terSOn, Centenary ed., 12 vols. Boston and New York, 1903-1904. Young E1nerson Speaks, ed. McGiffert. Boston, 193 8 . The] o'llrllals of Ralph vValdo E1nerson., 10 vols. Boston and New York, 19 0 9-:1: 9 14· The Heart of E1nerson's Journals, ed. Bliss Perry. Boston and New York, 1926. The Letters of Ralph Waldo E117terSOn, ed. Rusk, 6 vols. New York, 1939·

BIOGRAPHY James E. Cabot, A Memoir oj Ralph Waldo

El1~erson, 2

vols. B ('s ton,

188 7.

George E. Woodberry, Ralph Waldo E11~erson. New York, I 90i. Ralph E. Rusk, The Life of Ralph ~Valdo Emerson. New York, 1949.

CRITICISM James Russell Lowell, "Emerson" in My Stztdy

Window~

Boston,

18 71 . John S. Harrison, T,te Teachers of Emerson. New York. 1910. John B. Moore, "Emerson on \rVordsworth," PMLA, XLI (19~6)7 179- 1 9 2 . Frank T. Thompson, "Emerson's Indebtedness to Coleridge." Studies in Philology, XXIII (1926) 55-76; "Emerson and Carlyle," idem, XXIV (19 2 7), 438-453.

Norman Foerster, "Emerson" in American Criticism. Boston and New York, 1928. John Dewey, "Emerson" in Character and Events. New York, 1929. Henry S. Canby, "Emerson" in Classic Americans. New York, I93I. Bliss Perry, E1nerS011. Today. Princeton, I931. Gay w. Allen~ "Emerson" in American Prosody. New York, 1935Townsend Scudder II, The Lonely Wayfaring Man: Emerson and Some Englishrnen. London and New York, I936. Ralph H. Gabriel, The Course of Ame1'ican Democratic Thought, p~ 39-47 and passi1n. New York, I940. F. O. Matthiessen, A'I'nerican Renaissance, pp. 3-t75. London and New York, 1941.

T. MeD . nvu••

NATURE (Nature was Emerson's first book. He Jzad been medi. . tating on it several years be/ore lze published it in 1836. Some of it he wrote in the san'Le room where H awt/zorne wrote Mosses from an Old Manse. Five hundred copies of Nature were published anonymously. Although the book made a few friends in England, notably Carlyle, Richard Monckton Milnes and John Ste1-Zing, it was not enthusiastically received as a whole. It was not reissued until 1847.]

A subtle chain of countless rings The next unto the farthest brings; The eye reads omens where it goes, And speaks all languages the rose; And, striving to be man, the worm Mounts through all the spires of form.

INTRODUCTION age is retrospective. It builds the sepulchres of the fathers. It writes biographies, histories, and criticism. The foregoing generations beheld God and nature face to face; we, through their eyes. Why should not we also enjoy an original relation to the universe? Why should not vve have a poetry and philosophy of in sight and not of tradition, and a religion by revelation to us, and not the history of theirs? Embosomed for a season in nature, whose floods of life stream around and through us, and invite us, by the po\vers they supply, to action proportioned to nature, Why should we grope an10ng the dry bones of the past, or put the living generation into masquerade out of its faded wardrobe? The sun shines to-day also. There is more wool and flax in the fields. There are new lands, new men, new thoughts. Let us demand our own works and laws and worship. Undoubtedly we have no questions to ask which are unanswerable. We n1ust trust the perfection of the creation so far as to believe that whatever curiosity the order of things has awakened in our Ininds, the order of things can satisfy. Every man's condition is a solution in hieroglyphic to those inquiries be would put. He acts it as life, before he apprehends it as truth. In like manner, nature is already, in its forrns and tendencies, describing its own d.esign. Let us interrogate the great apparition that shines so peacefully around us. Let us inquire, to what end is nature? All science has one aim, na111ely, to find a theory of nature. We have theories of races and of functions, but scarcely yet a remote approach to an idea of creation. We are novY so far from the road to truth, that religious teachers dispute and hate each other, and speculative l11en are esteen1ed unsound and frivolous. But to a sound judgn1ent, the most abstract truth is the most practical.. Whenever a true theory appears, it will be its own evidence. Its test is, that it will explain all phenomena. Now many are thought

OUR

:~

4

NATURE

not only unexplained but inexplicable; as language, sleep, mad . . ness, dreams, beasts, sex. Philosophically considered, the universe is composed of Nature and the Soul. Strictly speaking, therefore, all that is separate from us, all which Philosophy distinguishes as the NOT ME, that is, both nature and art, all other men and my own body, must be ranked under this name, NATURE. In enumerating the values of nature and casting up their sum, I shall use the word in both senses-in its common and in its philosophical import. In inquiries so general as our present one, the inaccuracy is not material; no confusion of thought will occur. Nature, in the common sense, refers to essences uncbanged by man; space, the air, the river, the leaL Art is applied to the mixture of his will with the same things, as in a house, a canal, a statue, a picture. But hi.q operations taken together are so insignificant, a little chipping, baking, patching, and washing, that in an impression so grand as that of the world on the human mind, they do not vary the result.

NATURE I To GO into solitude, a man needs to retire as much from his cham ber as from society. I am not solitary whilst I read and write, though nobody is with me. But if a man would be alone, let him look at the stars. The rays that come from those heavenly worlds will separate between him and what he touches. One might think the atmosphere was made transparent with this design, to give man, in the heavenly bodies, the perpetual presence of the sub ... lime. Seen in the streets of cities, how great they are! If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore; and preserve for many generations the remem· brance of the city of God which had been shown! But every night come out these envoys of beauty, and light the universe with their admonishing smile. The stars awaken a certain reverence, because though always present~ they are inaccessible; but all natural objects make a kindred impression, when the mind is open to their influence. Nature never wears a mean appearance. Neither does the wisest man extort. her secret, and lose his curiosity by finding out aU her perfection. Nature never became a toy to a wise spirit. The flowers, the animals, the mountains, reflected the wisdom of his best hour, as much as they had delighted the simplicity of his childhood. When we speak of nature in this manner, we have a distinct bu1 most poetical sense in the mind. We mean the integrity of impres· sion made by manifold natural objects. It is this which distinguishes the stick of timber of the wood-cutter from the tree of the poet. The charming landscape which I saw this n10rning is indubitably made up of some twenty or thirty farms. Miller owns this , field, Locke that, and Manning the woodland beyond. But none of them owns the landscape. There is a property in the horizon which no man has but he whose eye can integrate all the parts, l

5

6

NATURE

that IS, the poet. This is the best part of these men's farms, yet tu this their warranty-deeds give no title. To speak truly, few adult persons can see nature.l\iost persons do not see the sun. At least they have a very superficial seeing. The sun illuminates only the eye of the man, but shines into the t;ye and the heart of the child. The lover of nature is he whose inward and outward senses are still truly adjusted to each other; 'who has retained the spirit of infancy even into the era of manhood. His intercourse with heaven and earth becomes part of his daily food. In the presence of nature a wild delight runs through the man, in spite of real sorrows. Nature says-he is my creature, and maugre all his impertinent griefs, he shall be glad with me. Not the sun or the summer alone, but every hour and season yields its tribute of delight; for every hour and change corresponds to and authorizes a different state of the mind, fronl breathless noon to grimmest midnight. Nature is a setting that fits equally well a comic or a mourning piece. In good health, the air is a cordial of incredible virtue. Crossing a bare common, in snow puddles, at twilight, under a clouded sky, without having in my thoughts any occurrence of special good fortune, I have en .. joyed a perfect exhilaration. I am glad to the brink of fear. In the woods, too, a man casts off his years, as the snake his slough, and at what period soever of life is always a child. In the woods is per~tnaI youth. Within these plantations of God, a decoruln and oanctity reign, a perennial festival is dressed, and the guest sees not how he should tire of them in a thousand years. In the woods, we return to reason and faith. There I feel that nothing can be.. fall me in life-no disgrace, no calamity (leaving me my eyes), which nature cannot repair. Standing on the bare ground-my b~ad bathed by the blithe air and uplifted into infinite space-all mean egotism vanishes. I become a transparent eyeball" I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being ci~cu]a.te through me; I am part or parcel of God. The name of the nearest friend" so"ands then foreign and accidental: to be brothers, to be acqual!J.tances, master or servant, is then a trifle and a disturb . , ance. I am the lover of uncontained and immortal beauty. In the wUuerness I find something more dear and connate· than ill

N ATU RE

7

streets or villages. In the tranquil landscape, and especially in the distant line of the horizon, man beholds somewhat as beautiful as his own nature. The greatest delight which the fields and woods minister is the suggestion of an occult relation between man and the vegetable. I am not alone and unacknowledged. They nod to me, and I to them. The waving of the boughs in the storm is new to me and old. It takes me by surprise, and yet is not unknown. Its effect is like that of a higher thought or a better emotion coming over me, when I deemed I was thinking justly or doing right. Yet it is certain that the power to produce this delight does not reside in nature, but in man, or in a harmony of both. It is necessary to use these pleasures with great temperance. For nature is not always tricked in holiday attire, but the same scene which yesterday breathed perfume and glittered as for the frolic of the nymphs is overspread with melancholy to-day . Nature always wears the colors of the spirit. To a man laboring under calamity, the heat of his own fire hath sadness in it. Then there is a kind of contempt of the landscape felt by him who has just lost by death a dear friend. The sky is less grand as it shuts down over less worth in the population.

II COMMODITY

considers the final cause of the world will discern a multitude of uses that enter as parts into that result. They all admit of being thrown into one of the following classes: Commodity; Beauty; Language; and Discipline. Under the general name of commodity, I rank all those advantages which our senses owe to nature. This, of course, is a benefit which is temporary and mediate, not ultimate, like its service to the soul. Yet although low, it is perfect in its kind, and is the only use of nature which all men apprehend. The misery of man ap .. pears like childish petulance, when we explore the steady and prodigal provision that has been made for his support and delight on this green ball which floats him through the heavens. What

WHOEVER

8

NATURE

angels invented these splendid ornaments, these rich conveniences, this ocean of air above, this ocean of water beneath, this firmament of earth between? this zodiac of lights, this tent of dropping clouds, this striped coat of climates, this fourfold year? Beasts, fire, water, stones, and corn serve him. The field is at once his fioor, his work-yard, his play-ground, his garden, and his bed. "More servants wait on man Than he'll take notice of." Nature, in its ministry to man, is not only the material, but is also the process and the result. All the parts incessantly work into each other's hands for the profit of man. The wind sows the seed; the sun evaporates the sea; the wind blows the vapor to the field; the ice, on the other side of the planet, condenses rain on this; the rain feeds the plant; the plant feeds the animal; and thus the endless circulations of the divine charity nourish man. The useful arts are reproductions or new combinations by the wit of man, of the same natural benefactors. He no longer waits for favoring gales, but by means of steam, he realizes the fable of Aeolus's bag, and carries the two and thirty winds in the boiler of his boat. To diminish friction, he paves the road with iron bars, and, mounting a coach with a ship-load of men, animals, and merchandise behind him, he darts through the country, from town to town, like an eagle or a swallow through the air. By the aggregate of these aids, how is the face of the world changed, from the era of N oab to that of Napoleon! The private poor man hath cities, ships, canals, bridges, built for him. He goes to the post. . office, and the human race run on his errands; to the book-shop, and the human race read and write of all that happens for him; to the court-house, and nations repair his wrongs. He sets his house upon the road, and the human race go forth every morning, and shovel out the snow, and cut a path for him. But there is no need of specifying particulars in this class of uses. The catalogue is endless, and the examples so obvious, that I shall leave t~em to the reader's reflection, with the general remark, that thIS mercenary benefit is one which has respect to a

NATURE

9

farther good. A man is fed, not that he may be fed, but that he may work. III BEAUTY

A

NOBLER

want of man is served by nature, namely, the love of

Beauty. The ancient Greeks called the world KOOl-l0;', beauty_ Such is the constitution of all things, or such the plastic power of the human eye, that the primary forms, as the sky, the mountain, the tree, the animal, give us a delight in and for themselves; a pleasure arising from outline, color, motion, and grouping. This seems partly owing to the eye itself. The eye is the best of artists. By the mutual action of its structure and of the laws of light, perspective is produced, which integrates every mass of objects, of what character soever, into a well colored and shaded globe, so that where the particular objects are mean and unaffecting, the landscape which they compose is round and symmetricaL And as the eye is the best composer, so light is the first of painters. There is no object so foul that intense light will not make beautiful. And the stimulus it affords to the sense, and a sort of infinitude which it hath, like space and time, make all matter gay. Even the corpsI:' has its own beauty. But besides this general grace diffused over nature, almost all the individual forms are agreeable to the eye, as is proved by our endless imitations of sonle of them, as the acorn, the grape, the pine-cone, the wheat-ear, the egg, the wings' and forms of most birds, the lion's claw, the serpent, the butterfly, sea-shells, flames, clouds, buds, leaves, and the forms of many trees, as the palm. For better consideration, we may distribute the aspects of Beauty in a threefold manner. I. First, the simple perception of natural forms is a delight. The influence of the forms and actions in nature is so needful to man, that, in its lowest functions, it seems to lie on the confines {)f commodity and beauty . To the body and mind which have been cramped by noxious work or comoany , nature is medicinal

IO

NATURE

and restores their tone. The tradesman, the attorney comes out of the din and craft of the street and sees the sky and the woods, ~nd is a man again. In their eternal calm, he finds himself. The 'Jealth of the eye seems to demand a horizon. We are never tired, so long as we can see far enough. But in other hours, Nature satisfies by its loveliness, and without any mixture of corporeal benefit. I see the spectacle of morn . . ing from the hilltop over against my house, from daybreak to sunrise, with emotions which an angel might share. The long slender bars of claud float like fishes in the sea of crimson light. From the earth, as a shore, I look out into that silent sea. I seem to partake its rapid transformations; the active enchantment reaches my dust, and I dilate and conspire with the morning wind. How does .Nature deify us with a few and cheap elements! Give health and a day, and I will make the pomp of emperors ricliculous. The dawn"is my Assyria; the sunset and moonrise my Paphos, and unimaginable realms of faerie; broad noon shall be my England of the senses and the understanding; the night shall be my Germany of mystic philosophy and dreams. Not less excellent, except for our less susceptibility in the afternoon, was the charm, last evening, of a January sunset The western clouds divided and subdivided themselves into pink flakes modulated with tints of unspeakable softness, and the air bad so much life and sweetness that it was a pain to come within doors. What was it that nature would say? Was there no meaning in the live repose of the valley behind the mill, and which Homer or Shakspeare could not re-form for me in words? The leafless trees become spires of flame in the sunset, with the blue east for their background, and the stars of the dead calices of flowers,. and every withered stem and stubble rimed with frost, contribute something to the mute music. The inhabitants of cities suppose that the country landscape is. pleasant only half the year. I please myself with the graces of the winter scenery, and believe that we are as much touched by it as by the genial influences of summer. To the attentive eye, each moment of the year has its own beauty, and in the same field it beholds, every hour, a picture which was never seen before ~nd,

me

NATURE

which shall never be seen again. The heavens change every moment, and reflect their glory or gloom on the plains beneath. The state of the crop in the surrounding farms alters the expression of the earth from week to week. The succession of native plants in the pastures and roadsides, which make the silent clock by which time tells the summer hours, will make even the divisions of the day sensible to a keen observer. The tribes of birds and insects, like the plants punctual to their time, follow each other, and the year has room for all. By watercourses, the variety is greater. In July, the blue pontederia or pickerel-weed blooms in large beds in the shallow parts of our pleasant river, and swarms with yellow butterflies in continual motion. Art cannot rival this pomp of purple and gold. Indeed the river is a perpetual gala, and boasts each month a new ornament. But this beauty of Nature which is seen and felt as beauty, is. the least part. The shows of day, the dewy morning, the rainbow, mountains, orchards in blossom, stars, moonlight, shadows in still water, and the like, if too eagerly hunted, become shows merely, and mock us with their unreality. Go out of the house to see the moon, and 't is mere tinsel; it will not please as when its light shines upon your necessary journey. The beauty that shimmers in the yellow afternoons of October, who ever could clutch it? Go forth to find it, and it is gone; 't is only a mirage as you look from the windows of diligence. 2. The presence of a higher, namely, of the spiritual element is essential to its perfection. The high and divine beauty which can be loved without efienlinacy, is that which is found in combination with the human will. Beauty is the mark God sets upon virtue. Every natural action is graceful Every heroic· acfis also '(Iecent, and causes the place and the bystanders to shine. We are taught by great B:ctions that the universe is the property of every individual in it. Every rational creature has all nature for his dowry and estate. It is his, if he wilL He may divest himself of it; he"may creep into a corner, and abdicate his kingdom, as most men do, but he is entitled to the world by his constitution. In pro .. portion to the energy of his thought and will, he takes up the world into himself. ",All those things for which men plo~gh, build,

12

NATURE

or sail obey virtue"" said Sallust. "The winds and waves," said Gilibo~, "are alwa.;s on the side of the ablest navigators." So are the sun and moon and all the stars of heaven. When a noble act is done-perchance in a scene of great natural beauty; when Leonidas and his three hundred martyrs consume one day in dying and the sun and moon come each and look at them once in the'steep defile of Thermopylae; when Arnold Winkelried, in the high Alps, under the shadow of the avalanche, gathers in his side a sheaf of Austrian spears to break the line for his comrades; are not these heroes entitled to add the beauty of the scene to the beauty of the deed? When the bark of Columbus nears the shore of America; before it the beach lined with savages, fleeing out of all their huts of cane; the sea behind; and the purple mountains of the Indian Archipelago around, can we separate the man from the living picture? Does not the New World clothe his form with her palm-groves and savannahs as fit drapery? Ever does natural beauty steal in like air, and envelop great actions. When Sir Harry Vane was dragged up the Tower-hill, sitting on a sled, to suffer death as the champion of the English laws, one of the multitude cried out to him, "You never sate on so glorious a seat!" Charles II, to intimidate the citizens of London, caused the patriot Lord Russell to be drawn in an open coach through the principal streets of the city on his way to the scaffold. "But," his biographer says, "the multitude imagined they saw liberty and virtue sitting by his side." In private places, alnong sordid objects, an act of truth or heroism seems at once to draw to itself the sky as its temple, the sun as its candle. Nature stretches out her arms to embrace man, only ~~.t his thoughts'oe of equal greatness. Willingly does she- follow his steps with the rose and the violet, and bend her lines of grandeur and grace to the decoration of her darling child. Only let his thoughts be of equal scope, and the frame will suit the picture. A virtuous man is in unison with her works, and makes the central figure of the visible sphere. Homer, Pindar, Socrates, Phocion, associate themselves fitly in {)ur memory with the geography and climate of Greece. The vis . . ible heavens and earth sympathize with Jesus. And in common life whosoey,er has seen a person of powerful character and happy

NATURE

I3

genius, will have remarked how easily he took all things along with him-the persons, the opinions, and the day, and nature became ancillary to a man. 3. There is still another aspect under which the beauty of the world may be viewed, namely, as it becomes an object of the intellec.t. Beside the relation of things to virtue, they have a relation to thought. The intellect searches out the absolute order of things as they stand in the mind of God, and without the colors of affection. The intellectual and the active powers seem to succeed each other, and the exclusive activity of the one generates the exclusive activity of the other. There is something unfriendly in each to the other, but they are like the alternate periods of feeding and working in animals; each prepares and will be followed by the other. Therefore does beauty, which, in relation to actions, as we have seen, comes unsought, and comes because it is unsought, remain for the apprehension and pursuit of the in.. tellect; and then again, in its turn, of the active power. Nothing divine dies. All good is eternally reproductive. The beauty of nature re-forms itself in the mind, and not for barren contempla. . tion, but for new creation. All men are in some degree impressed by the face of the world; some men even to delight. This love of beauty is Taste. Others have the same love in such excess, that, not content with admiring, they seek to embody it in new forms. The creation of beauty is Art . The production of a work of art throws a light upon the mystery of humanity" A work of art is an abstract or epitome of the world. It is the result or expression of nature, in miniature. For although the works of nature are innumerable and all differen t, the result or the expression of them all is similar and single. Nature is a sea of forms radically alike and even unique. A leaf, a sunbeam, a landscape, the ocean, make an analogous impression on the mind. What is common to them all-that perfectness and harmony, is beauty. The standard of beauty is the entire circuit of natural forms-the totality of nature; which the Italians expressed by defining beauty ceil pili nell' uno." N otbing is quite beautiful alone; nothing but is beautiful in tbe whole. A single

14

NATURE

object is only so far beautiful as it suggests this universal grace. The poet, the painter, the sculptor, the musician, the architect, seek each to concentrate this radiance of the world on one point, and each in his several work to satisfy the love of beauty '~Thich stimulates him to produce. Thus is Art a nature passed through the alembic of man. Thus in art does Nature work through the will of a man filled with the beauty of her first works. The world thus exists to the soul to satisfy the desire of beauty. This element I call an ultimate end. No reason can be asked or given why the soul seeks beauty. Beauty, in its largest and profoundest sense, is one expression for the universe. God is the all .. fair. Truth, and goodness, and beauty, are but different faces of the same AlL But beauty in nature is not ultimate. It is the herald of inward and eternal beauty, and is not alone a solid and satis.. factory good. It must stand as a part, and not as yet the last or highest expression I.Jf the final cause of Nature.

IV LANGUAGE LANGUAGE

is a third use which Nature subserves to man. Nature

is the vehicle of thought, and in a simple, double, and three-fold degree. I. Words are signs of natural facts. 2. Particular natural facts are symbols of particular spiritual ' facts. 3. Nature is the symbol of spirit. I. Words are signs of natural facts. The use of natural history is to give us aid in superna.tural history; the use of the outer creation, to give us language for the beings and changes of the inward creation. Every word which is used to express a moral or intellectual fact, if tra.ced to its root, is found to be borro",' ed from some material appearance. Right means straight; wrong means twisted; Spirit primarily means wind; transgression, the crossing of a lim; supercilious, the raising of the e'yebrow. We say the heart to expre~s emotion, the ltead to denote thought; and ~ho1J,ght and emotzon are words borrowed from sensible things

NATURE

IS

and now appropriated to spiritual nature.l\Iost of the process by which this transformation is made, is hidden from us in the remote time when language was framed; but the same tendency may be daily observed in children. Children and savages use only nouns or names of things, which they convert into verbs, and apply to analogous mental acts. 2. But this origin of all words that convey a spiritual import -so r,onspicuous a fact in the history of language-is our least debt to nature. It is not words only that are emblematic; it is things which are emblematic. Every natural fact is a symbol of some spiritual fact. Every appea:ance in nature corresponds to some state of the mind, and that state of the mind can only be described by presenting that natural appearance as its picture. An enraged man is a lion, a cunning man is a fox, a firm man is a rock, a learned man is a torch. A lamb is innocence; a snake is subtle spite; flowers express to us the delicate affections. Light and darkness are our familiar expression for knowledge and ignorance; and beat for love. Visible distance behind and before us, is respectively our image of memory and hope. \Vho looks upon a river in a meditative hour and is not reminded of the flux of all things? Throw a stone into the stream!t and the circles that propagate themselves are the beautiful type of all influence. Man is conscious of a universal soul within or behind his individual life, wherein, as in a firmament, the natures of Justice, Truth, Love, Freedom, arise and shine. This universal soul he calls Reason: it is not mine, or t bine, or bis, but we ~L\e its; we are its property and men. And the blue sky in which c~n.e p~i­ vate earth is buried, the sky with its eternal calm, and full of everlasting orbs, is the type of Reason. That which intellectl),'.tlly considered we call Reason, considered in relation to nature, we call Spirit. Spirit is the Creator. Spirit hath life in itself. AIJd man in all ages and countries embodies it in his language as the ' FATHER.

It is easily seen that there is nothing lucky or capricious in these analogies, but that they are constant, and pervade nature. These are not the dreams of a few poets, here and there, but lnan is an ana.1ogist, and studies relations in all objects. He is placed

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in the centre of beings, and a ray of relation passes from ever) other being to him. And neither can man be understood without these objects, nor these objects without man. All the facts in natural history taken by themselves, have no value, but are bar .. ren, like a single sex. But marry it to human history, and it is full of life. "'llole floras, all Linnreus' and Buffon's volumes, are dry catalogues of facts; but the most trivial of these facts, the habit .of a plant, the organs, or work, or noise of an insect, applied to the illustration of a fact in intellectual philosophy, or in any way associated to human nature, affects us in the n10st lively and agreeable manner. The seed of a plant-to what affecting analo .. gies in the nature of man is that little fruit made use of, in all dis~ course, up to the voice of Paul, who calls the human corpse a seed -"It is sown a natural body; it is raised a spiritual body." The motion of the earth round its axis and round the sun, makes the day and the year. These are certain amounts of brute light and he~t . But is there no intent of an analogy between man's life and the seasons? And do the seasons gain no grandeur or pathos from that analogy? The instincts of the ant are very unimportant con.. sidered as the ant's; but the moment a ray of relation is seen to e.~tend from it to man, and the little drudge is seen to be a Inonitor, a little body with a mighty heart, then all its habits, even that said to be recently observed, that it never sleeps, become sublinle. Because of this radical correspondence between visible things and human thoughts, savages, who have only what is necessary, converse in figures. As we go back in history, language beC0111eS more picturesque, until its infancy, when it is all poetry; or all spiritual facts are represented by natural symbols. The sanle symbols are found to make the original elements of all languages. It has moreover been observed, that the idioms of all languages approach each other in passages of the greatest eloquence and power . And as this is the first language, so is it the last. This immediate dependence of language upon nature, this cOllversion of an outward phenomenon into a type of somewhat in human life never loses its power to affect us. It is this which gives that piquancy to the conversation of a strong-natured farmer or backwoodsman, which all men relish.

NATURE

A man's power to connect his thought with its proper sytnbol, and so to utter it, depends on the simplicity of his character, that is, upon his love of truth and his desire to communicate it without loss. The corruption of man is followed by the corruption of language. When simplicity of ch~racter and the sovereignty of ideas is broken up by the prevalence of secondary desires-the desire of riches, of pleasure, of power, and of praise-and duplicity and falsehood take place of simplicity and truth, the power over nature as an interpreter of the will is in a degree lost; new imagery ceases to be created, and old words are perverted to stand for things which are not; a paper currency is employed, when there is no bullion in the vaults. In due time the fraud i$ manifest, and words lose all power to stimulate the understanding or the affections. Hundreds of writers may be found in every long-civilized nation who for a short time believe and make others believe that they see and utter truths, who do not of themselves clothe one thought in its natural garment, but who feed unconsciously on the language created by the primary writers of the country, those, namely, who hold primarily on nature. But wise men pierce this rotten diction and fasten words again to visible things; so that picturesque language is at once a com.. manding certificate that he who employs it is a man in alliance with truth and God. The moment our discourse rises above the ground line of familiar facts and is inflamed with passion or exalted by thought, it clothes itself in images. A man conversing in earnest, if he watch his intellectual processes, will find that a material image more or less luminous arises in his mind, contemporaneous with every thought, which fq.rnishes the vestment of the thought. Hence, good writing and brilliant discourse are perpetual allegories. This imagery is spontaneous. It is the blending of experience with the present action of the mind. It is proper creation. It is the working of the Original Cause through the instruments he has already made. These facts may suggest the advantage which the country-life possesses, for a powerful mind, over the artificial and curtailed life of cities. We know more from nature than we can at will communicate. Its light flows into the mind evermore, and we for-

18

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get its presence. T~le poet, the orator, bred in the woods, whose senses have been nourished by their fair and appeasing changes, year after year, without design and without heed-shall not lose their lesson altogether, in the roar of cities or the broil of politics. Long hereafter, amidst agitation and terror in national councils -in the hour of revolution-these solemn images shall reappear in their morning lustre, as fit symbols and words of the thoughts which the passing events shall awaken. At the call of a noble sentiment, again the woods wave, the pines murmur, the river rolls and shines, and the cattle low upon the mountains, as he saw and heard them in his infancy. And with these forms, the spells of persuasion, the keys of power are put into his hands. 3. We are thus assisted by natural objects in the expression of partiCUlar meanings. But how great a language to convey such pepper-corn informations! Did it need such noble races of creatures, this profusion of forms, this host of orbs in heaven, to furnish man with the dictionary and grammar of his municipal speech? Whilst we use this grand cipher to expedite the affairs of our pot and kettle, we feel that we have not yet put it to its use, neither are able. 'Ve are like travellers using the cinders of a volcano to roast their eggs. Whilst we see that it always stnnds ready to clothe '\\t~hat we would say, we cannot avoid the question whether the characters are not significant of themselves. Have mountains, and waves, and skies, no significance but what we consciously give them when we employ them as -emblems of our thoughts? The world is emblematic. Parts of speech are metaphors, because the whole of nature is a metaphor of the human nlind. The laws of moral nature answer to those of matter as face to face in a glass. "The visible world and the relation of its parts, is the dial plate of the invisible." The axioms of physics translate the laws of ethics. Thus, "the whole is greater than its part·" "reaction is equal to action;" "the smallest weight may be made to lift the greatest, the difference of weight being compensated by time;" and many the like propositions, which have an ethical as well as physical sense. These propositions have a much more extensive and universal sense when applied to human life than ' when confined to technical use.

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19

In like manner, the memorable words of history and the proverbs of nations consist usually of a natural fact, selected as a pic... ture or parable of a moral truth. Thus: A rolling stone gathers no moss; A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush; A cripple in the right way will beat a racer in the wrong; l\Iake hay while the sun shines; 'T is hard to carry a full cup even; Vinegar is the son of wine; The last ounce broke the camel's back; Long-lived trees make roots first-and the like. In their primary sense these are trivial facts, but we repeat them for the value of +.heir analogical import. What is true of proverbs, is true of all faoles, parables, and allegories. This relation between the mind and matter is not fancied by some poet, but stands in the will of God, and so is free to be known by all men. It appears to men, or it does not appear. When in fortunate hours we ponder this miracle, the wise mall doubts if at all other times he is not blind and deaf; "Can such things be, And overcome us like a summer's cloud, Without our special wonder?" for the universe becomes transparent, and the light of higher laws than its own shines through it. It is the standing problem which has exercised the wonder and the study of every fine genius since the world began; from. the era of the Egyptians and the Brahmins to that of Pythagoras, of Plato, of Bacon, of Leibnitz} of Swedenborg. There sits the Sphinx at the road . . side, and from age to age, as each prophet comes by, he tries his fortune at reading her riddle. There seems to be a necessity in spirit to mani fest itself in material forms; and day and night, river and storm, beast and bird, acid and alkali, preexist in necessary Ideas in the mind of God, and are what they are by virtue of preceding affections in the world of spirit. A Fact is the end or last issue of spirit. The visible creation is the terminus or the circumference of tbe invisible world, "Material objects," said a French philosopber, ('are necessarily kinds of scoric:e of the substantial thoughts of the Creator, which must always preserve an exact relation to their 4

'

20

NATURE

first origin; in other words, visible nature must have a spiritual and moral side." This doctrine is abstruse, and though the images of "garment," "scorire," "mirror," etc., may stimulate the fancy, we must summon the aid of subtler and more vital expositors to make it plain. "Every scripture is to be interpreted by the same spirit which gave it forth," is the fundamental law of criticism. A life in har· many with Nature, the love of truth and of virtue, will purge the eyes to understand her text. By degrees we may come to know the primitive sense of the permanent objects of nature, so that the world shall be to us an open book, and every form significant of its hidden life and final cause. A new interest surprises us, whilst, under the view now suggested, we contemplate the fearful extent and multitude of ob .. jects; since "every object rightly seen, unlocks a new faculty of the souL" That which was unconscious truth, becomes, when interpreted and defined in an object, a part of the domain of knowl .. edge-a new weapon in the magazine of power.

v DISCIPLINE

IN VIEW of the significance of nature, we arrive at once at a new fact, that nature is a discipline. This use of the world includes the preceding uses, as parts of itself. Space, time, society, labor, climate, food, locomotion, the animals, the mechanical forces, give us sincerest lessons, day by day, Whose mealling is unlimited. They educate both the Understand . . ing and the Reason. Every property of matter is a school for the underst~TI.ding-its solidity or resistance, its inertia, its extension,

its figure, its divisibility. The understanding adds, divides, combines, measures, and finds nutriment and room for its activity in

this worthy scene. l\Ieantime, Reason transfers all these lessons into its own world of thought, by perceiving the analogy that marries 1\:Iatter and l\iind. I. Nature is a discipline of the understanding in intellectual truths. Our dealing with sensible objects is a constant exercise in

NATURE

21

the necessary lessons of difference, of likeness, of order, of being and seeming, of progressive arrangement; of ascent from particular to general; of combination to one end of manifold forces. Proportioned to the importance of the organ to be formed, is the extreme care with which its tuition is provided-a care preter. ., mitted in no single case. What tedious training, day after day, year after year never ending, to form the common sense; what continual repfoduction of annoyances, inconveniences, dilemmas; what r~joicing over us of little men; what disputing of prices, whatJ~eckonings of interest-and all to form the Hand of the mind-Jo instruct us that" good thoughts are no better than good dream~, unless they be executed! " The same good office is performed by Property and its filiai systems of debt and credit. Debt, grinding debt, whose iron face the widow, the orphan, and the sons of genius fear and hatedebt, which consumes so much time, which so cripples and disheartens a great spirit with cares that seem so base, is a preceptor whose lessons cannot be foregone, and is needed most by those who suffer from it most. Moreover, property, which has been well compared to snow-"if it fall level to-day, it will be blown into drifts to . .morrow," is the surface action of internal machinery, like the index on the face of a clock. Whilst now it is the gymnastics of the understanding, it is hiving, in the foresight of the spirit, experience in profounder laws. The whole character and fortune of the individual are affected by the least inequalities in the culture of the understanding; for example, in the perception of differences. Therefore is Space, and therefore Tinle, that man may know that things are not huddled and lumped, but sundered and individual. A bell and a plough have each their use, and neither can do the office of the other. Water is good to drink, coal to burn, wool to wear; but wool can. . not be drunk, nor water spun, nor coal eaten. The wise man shows his wisdom in separation, in gradation, and his scale of creatures and of merits is as wide as nature. The foolish have no range in their scale, but suppose every man is as every other man. What is not good they call the worst, and what is not hateful, they call the best.

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In like manner, what good heed Nature forms in us! She par.. dons no mistakes. Her yea is yea, and her nay, nay. The first steps in Agriculture, Astronomy, Zoology (those first steps which the farmer, the hunter, and the sailor take), teach that Nature's dice are always loaded; that in her heaps and rubbish are concealed sure and useful results. How calmly and genially the mind apprehends one after an .. other the laws of physics! What noble emotions dilate the mortal as he enters into the touncils of the creation, and feels by knowledge the privilege to BE! His insight refines him. The beauty of nature shines in his own breast. Man is greater that he can see this, and the universe less, because Time and Space relations va.n. . . ish as laws are known. Here again we are impressed and even daunted by the im . . mense Universe to be explored. "What we know is a point to what we do not know." Open any recent journal of science, and weigh the problems suggested concerning Light, Heat, Electricity, IVlagnetism, Physiology, Geology, and judge whether the interest of natural science is likely to be soon exhausted. Passing by many particulars of the discipline of nature~ we mU$t not omit to specify two. ,. . /'·'The exercise of the Will, or the lesson of power, is taught in every event. From the child's successive , possession of his several senses up to the bour when he saith, "Thy will be done!" he is learning the secret that he can reduce under his will not only particular events but great classes, nay, the whole series of events, and so conform all facts to his character. Nature is thoroughly mediate. It is made to serve. It receives the dominion of mall as meekly as the ass on which the Saviour rode. It offers all its king... doms to Inan as the raw material which he may mould into what is useful. Man is never weary of working it up. He forges the subtile and delicate air into wise and melodious words and gives them wing as angels of persuasion and command. On~ after an . . oth~r his victorious thought comes up with and reduces all things, until the world becomes at last only a realized will-the double of the man. 2. Sensible objects conform to the vremonitions of Reason

NATURE

23

and reflect the conscience. All things are moral; and in their boundless changes have an unceasing reference to spiritual nature. Therefore is nature glorious with form, color, and motion; that every globe in the remotest heaven, every chemical change from the rudest crystal up to the laws of life, every change of vegetation from the first principle of growth in the eye of a leaf, to the tropical forest and antediluvian coal-mine, every animal function from the sponge up to Hercules, shall hint or thunder to man the laws of right and wrong, and echo the Ten Commandments. Therefore is Nature ever the ally of Religion: lends all her pomp and riches to the religious sentiment. Prophet and priest, David, Isaiah, Jesus, have drawn deeply from this source. This ethical character so penetrates the bone and marrow of nature, as to seem the end for which it was made. Whatever pri· vate purpose is answered by any member or part, 'this is its pub ... lie and universal function, and is never omitted. Nothing in nature is exhausted in its first use. When a thing has served an end to the uttermost, it is wholly new for an ulterior service. In God, every end is converted into a new means. Thus the use of commodity, regarded by itself, is mean and squalid. But it is to the mind an education in the doctrine of Use, namely, that a thing is good only so far as it serves; that a conspiring of parts and efforts to the production of an end is essential to any being. The first and' gross manifestation of this truth is our inevitable and hated training in values and wants, in corn and meat. It has already been illustrated, that every natural process is a version of a moral sentence.. The" moral. law lies at the centre of nature and radiates to the circumference. It is the pith and mar• row of every substance, every relation, and every process~ All things with which we deal, preach to us. What is a farm but a mute gospel? The chaff and the wheat, weeds and plants, blight, rain, insects, sun-it is a sacred emblem from the first furrow of. spring to the last stack which the snow of winter overtakes in the fields. But the sailor, the shepherd, the miner, the merchant, in their several resorts, have each an experience precisely parallel, and leading to the same conclusion: because all organizations are radically alike. Nor can it be doubted that this moral sentiment

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which thus .scents the air, grows in the grain, and impregnates the waters of the world, is caught by man and sinks into his soul. The moral influence of nature upon every individual is that amount of truth which it illustrates to him. Who can estimate this? \Vho can guess how much firmness the sea-beaten rock has taught the .fisherman? How much tranquillity has been reflected to man frOIn the azure sky, over whose unspotted deeps the winds forevermore drive flocks of stormy clouds, and leave no wrinkle or stain? How much industry and providence and affection we have caught from the pantomime of brutes? What a searching preacher of self-command is the varying phenomenon of Health! Herein is especially apprehended the unity of Nature-the unity in variety-which meets us everywhere. All the endless variety of things make an identical impression. Xenophanes COlnplained in his old age, that, look where he would, all things has .. tened back to Unity. He was weary of seeing the same entity in the tedious variety of forms. The fable of Proteus has a cordial truth .•\ leaf, a drop, a crystal, a moment of time, is related to the whole} and partakes of the perfection of the whole. Each particle is a Inicrocosm, and faithfully renders the likeness of the world. Not only resemblances exist in things whose analogy is obvi .. 0115, as when we detect the type of the human hand in the Hipper of the fossil saurus, but also in objects wherein there is great superficial unlikeness. Thus architecture is called "frozen music," by De Stael and Goethe. Vitruvius thought an architect should be a musician. "A Gothic church," said Coleridge, "is a petrified religion." l\fichael Angelo maintained, that, to an architect, a knowledge of anatomy is essential. In Haydn's oratorios, the notes present to the imagination not only motions, as of the snake, the stag, and the elephant, but colors also; as the green gr(1SS. The law of harmonic sounds reappears in the harmonic colors. The granite is differenced in its laws only by the more or less of heat from the river that wears it away. The river, as it flows, resembles the air that flows over it; the air resembles the light which traverses it with more subtile currents; the light re .. sembles the heat which rides with it through Space. Each creature i~ only a modification of the other; the likeness in them is more

NATURE

than the difference, and their radical law is one and the same. A rule of one art, or a law of one organization, holds true throughout natur~. So intimate is this Unity, that, it is easily seen, it lies under the undermost garment of Nature, and betrays its source in Universal Spirit. For it pervades Thought also. Every uni .. versal truth which we express in words, implies or supposes every other truth. Omne verunz ve1"O consonat. It is like l:. great circle on a sphere, comprising all possible circles; which, however, may be drawn and comprise it in like manner. Every such truth i&the absolute Ens seen from one side. But it has innumerable sides . The central Unity is still more conspicuous in actions. \Vords ... are finite organs of the infinite mind. They cannot cover the dimensions of what is in truth. They break, chop, and impoverish it. An action is the perfection and publication of thought. A;:ight . action seems to fill the eye, and to be related to all nature. "'The wise man, in doing one thing, does all; or, in the one thing be does rightly, he sees the likeness of all which is done rightly." Words and actions are not the attributes of brute nature. They' introduce us to the human form, of which all other organizations appear to be degradations. When this appears among so many that surround it, the spirit prefers it to all others. It says, "From such as this have I drawn joy and knowledge; in such as this have I found and beheld myself; I will speak to it; it can speak again; it can yield me thought already formed and alive." In fact, the eye-the mind-is always accompanied by these forms, male and female; and these are incomparably the richest informations of the power and order that lie at the heart of things. Unfortunately everyone of them bears the marks as of some injury; is marred and superficially defective. Nevertheless, far different from the deaf and dumb nature around them, these all rest like fountainpipes on the un fathomed sea of thought and virtue whereto they alone, of all organizations, are the entrances. It were a pleasant inquiry to follow into detail their ministry to our education, but where would it stop? We are associated in adolescent and adult life with some friends, who, like skies and waters, are coextensive with our idea; who, answering each to a certain affection of the soul) satisfy our desire on that side; whorr "

NATURE

we lack power to put at such focal distance from us, that we can mend or even analyze them. \Ve cannot choose but love them. When much intercourse with a friend has supplied ps with a standard of excellence, and has increased our respect for the resources of God who thus sends a real person to outgo our ideal; when he has, moreover, become an object of thought, and, whilst - his character retains all its unconscious effect, is converted in the mind into solid and sweet wisdom-it is a sign to us that his office is closing, and he is commonly withdrawn from our sight in a short time.

VI IDEALISM

'rHUS

is the unspeakable but intelligible and practicable meaning

of the world conveyed to man, the immortal pupil, in every object of sense. To this one end of Discipline, all parts of nature con• SpIre. A noble doubt perpetually suggests itself-whether this end be not the Final Cause of the Universe; and whether nature out .. wardly exists. It is a sufficient account of that Appearance we call the \Vorld, that God will teach a human mind, and so makes it the receiver of a certain number of congruent sensations, which we call sun and moon, man and woman, house and trade. In my utter impotence to test the authenticity of the report of my senses, to know whether the impressions they make on me correspond with outlying objects, what difference does it make, whether Orion is up there in heaven, or some god paints the image in the firmament of the soul? The relations of parts and the end of the whole remaining the same, what is the difference, whether land and sea interact, and worlds revolve and intermingle without number or end-deep yawning under deep and gala.~ balancing galaxy, throughout absolute space-or wh~thel" without relations of time and space, the same appearances are in~ scribed i~ the constant faith of man? Whether nature enjoy a substantIal existence without, or is only in the apocalypse of the \tlind, it is alike useful and alike venerable to me. Be it what it

NATURE

may, it is ideal to me so long as I canot try the accuracy of my senses. The frivolous make themselves merry with the Ideal theory, as if its consequences were burlesque; as i.f it affected the stability of nature. It surely does not. God never jests with us, and will not compromise the end of nature by permitting any inconsequence in its procession. Any distrust of the permanence of laws would paralyze the faculties of man. 'fheir permanence is sacredly respected, and his faith therein is perfect. The wheels and springs of man are all set to the hypothesis of the permanence of nature. We are not built like a ship to be tossed, but like a bouse to stand. It is a natural consequence of this structure, that so long as the active powers predonlinate over the reflective, we resist with indignation any hint that nature is more short-lived or mutable than spirit. The broker, the wheelwright, the car.. penter, the tollman, are much displeased at the intimation. But whilst we acquiesce entirely in the permanence of natural laws, the question of the absolute existence of nature still remaIns open. It is the uniform effect of culture on the human mind, not to shake our faith in the stability of particular phenomena, as of heat, water, azote; but to lead us to regard nature as phenome. . nOD, not a substance; to attribute necessary existence to spirit; to esteem nature as an accident and an effect. To the senses and the unrenewed understanding, belongs a sort of instinctive belief in the absolute existence of nature. III their view man and nature are indissolubly joined. Things are ulti .. mates, and they never look beyond their sphere. The presence of Reason mars this faith. The first effort of thought tends to relax this despotism of the senses which binds us to nature as if we were a part of it, and shows us nature aloof, and, as it were, afloat. Until this higher agency intervened, the animal eye sees, with wonderful accuracy, sharp outlines and colored surfaces. When the eye of Reason opens, to outline and surface are at once added grace and expression. These proceed from imagination and affection, and abate somewhat of the angular distinctness of objects. If the Reason be stimulated to more earnest vision, outlines and surfaces become transparent, and are no longer seen; causes

NATURE

and soirits are seen through them. The best moments of life are these "delicious awakenings of the higher pow~rs, and the reveren. . tial withdrawing of nature before its God. Let us proceed to indicate the effects of culture. I. Our first institution in the Ideal philosophy is a hint from Nature herself.

Nature is made to conspire with spirit to emancipate us. eer. . tain mechanical changes, a small alteration in our local position, ~pprizes us of a dualism. We are strangely affected by seeing the ,Dhore from a moving ship, from a balloon, or through the tints uf an unusual sky_ The least change in our point of view gives the ~vhole world a pictorial air. A man who seldom rides, needs only Lo get into a coach and traverse his own town, to turn the street into a puppet-show. The men, the women-talking, running, bartering, fighting-the earnest mechanic, the lounger, the beggar, uhe boys, the dogs, are unrealized at once, or, at least, wholly detached from all relation to the observer, and seen as apparent, not substantial beings. "That new thoughts are suggested by seeing a face of country quite familiar, in the rapid movement of the railroad car! Nay, the most wonted objects (make a very slight change in the point of vision), please us most. In a camera ob . . scura, the butcher's cart, and the figure of one of our own family amuse us. So a portrait of a well-known face gratifies us. Turn the eyes upside down, by looking at the land~cape through your legs, and how agreeable is the picture, though you have seen it any time these twenty years! In these cases, by mechanical means, is suggested the difference between the observer and the spectacle-between man and nature. Hence arises a pleasure mixed with awe; I may say, a l()w degree of the sublime is felt, from the fact, probably, that man. is hereby apprized that whilst the world is a spectacle, something in himself is stable. 2. In a higher manner the poet communicates the same pIcas . . ure. By a few strokes he delineates, as on air, the sun, the nloun .. tam, the camp, the city, the hero, the maiden, not different from what we know them, but only lifted from the ground and afloat before the eye. He unfixes the land and the sea, makes them re . .

NATURE

volve around the axis of his primary thought, and disposes them anew. Possessed himself by a heroic passion, he uses matter as symbols of it. The sensual man conforms thoughts to things; the poet conforms things to his thoughts. The one esteems nature as rooted and fast; the other, as fluid, and impresses his being there... on. To him, the refractory world is ductile and flexible; he invests dust and stones with humanity, and makes them the words of the Reason. The Imagination may be defined to be the use which the Reason makes of the material world. Shakspeare possesses the power of subordinating nature for the purposes of expression, beyond all poets. -His imperial muse tosses the creation like a bauble from hand to hand, and uses it to embody any caprice ~ thought that is uppermost in his mind. The remotest spaces of nature are visited, and the farthest sundered things are brought together, by a subtile spiritual connection. We are made aware that magnitude of material things is relative, and all objects shrink and expand to serve the p~ssion of the poet. Thus in his sonnets, the lays of birds, the scents and dyes of flowers he finds to be the shadow of his beloved; time, which keeps her from bi m , is his chest; the suspicion she has awakened, is her ornament,The ornament of beauty is Suspect, A crow which flies in heaven's sweetest air. His passion is not the fruit of chance; it swells, as he speaks, to a city, or a state. No, it was builded far from accident; It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls Under the brow of thralling discontent; It fears not policy, that heretic, That works on leases of short numbered hours, But all alone stands hugely politic. In the strength of his constancy, the Pyramids seem to him re.cent and transitory. The freshness of youth and love dazzles him with its resemblance to morning;

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Take those lips away Which so sweetly were forsworn; And those eyes,-the break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn. The wild beauty of this hyperbole, I may say in passing, it would not be easy to match in literature. This transfiguration which all material objects undergo through the passion of the poet-this power which he exerts to dwarf the great, to magnify the small-might be illustrated by a thousand e..~amples from his Plays. I have before me the Tempest, and will cite only these few lines.

ARmL. The strong based promontory Have I made shake, and by the spurs plucked up The pine and cedar. Prospero calls for music to soothe the frantic Alonzo, and his • compamons; A solemn air, ana the best comforter To an unsettled fancy, cure thy brains N ow useless, boiled within thy skull. Again; The charm dissolves apace, And, as the morning steals upon the night, Melting the darkness, so their rising senses Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle Their clearer reason. Their understanding Begins to swell: and the approaching tide Will shortly fill the reasonable shores That now lie foul and muddy. The perception of real affinities between events (that is to say, of ideal affinities, for those only are real) , enables the poet thus to make free with the most imposing forms and phenomena of the world, and to assert the predominance of the soul. 3· Whilst thus the poet animates nature with his own thoughts, he differs from the philosopher only herein, that the one proposes Beauty as his main end; the other Truth. But the phi ..

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losopher, not less than the poet, postpones the apparent order and relations of things to the empire of thought. "The problem of philosophy," according to Plato, "is, for all that exists conditionally, to find a ground unconditioned and absolute." It proceeds on the faith that a law determines all phenomena, which being known, the phenomena can be predicted. That law, when in the mind, is an idea. Its beauty is infinite. The true philosopher and the true poet are one, and a beauty, which is truth, and a truth~ which is beauty, is the aim of both. Is not the charm of one of Plato's or Aristotle's definitions strictly like that of the Antigonc~ of Sophocles? It is, in both cases, that a spiritual life has been imparted to nature; that the solid seeming block of matter has been pervaded and dissolved by a thought; that this feeble human being has penetrated the vast masses of nature with an infornling soul, and recognized itself in their harmony, that is, seized their law. In physics, when this is attained, the memory disburthens itself of its cumbrous catalogues of particulars, 8nll carries centuries of observation in a single formula. Thus even in physics, the material is degraded before the spir.. ituaL The astronomer, the geometer, rely on their irrefragable analysis, and disdain the results of observation. The sublime remark of Euler on his law of arches, "This will be found contrar)' to all experience, yet is true; " had already transferred nature into the mind, and left matter like an outcast corpse. 4. Intellectual science has been observed to beget invariably a doubt of the existence of matter. Turgot said, "He that has never doubted the existence of matter, may be assured he has no aptitude for metaphysical inquiries." It fastens the attention upon immortal necessary uncreated natures, that is, upon Ideas; and in their presence we feel that the outward circumstance is a dream and a shade. Whilst we wait in this Olympus of gods, we think of nature as an appendix to the soul. We ascend into their region, and know that these are the thoughts of the Supreme Being. "These are they who were set up from everlasting, from the beginning, or ever the earth was. When he prepared the heavens, they were there; when he established the clouds above, when he strengthened the fountains of the deep. Then they were

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by hinl, as one brought up with him. Of them took he counsel." Their influence is proportionate. As objects of science they are accessible to few men. Yet all men are capable of being raised by piety or by passion, into their region. And no man touches these divine natures, without becoming, in some degree, himself divine. , Like a new soul, they renew the body. We become physically nimble and lightsome; we tread on air; life is no longer irksome, and we think it will never be so. No man fears age or misfortune or death in their serene company, for he is transported out of the district of change. Whilst we behold unveiled the nature of Justice and Truth, we learn the difference between the absolute and the conditional or relative. We apprehend the absolute. As it were, for the first time, we exist. We become immortal, for we learn that time and space are relations of matter; that with a perception of truth or a virtuous will they have no affinity. 5. Finally, religion and ethics, which may be fitly called the practice of ideas, or the introduction of ideas into life, have an analogous effect with all lower culture, in degrading nature and suggesting its dependence on spirit. Ethics and religion differ herein; that the one is the system of human duties commencing from man; the other, from God. Religion includes the personality of God; Ethics does not. They are one to our present design. They both put nature under foot. The first and last lesson of religion is, "The things that are seen, are temporal; the things that are un. . 3een, are eternal." It puts an affront upon nature. It does that for !the unschooled, which philosophy does for Berkeley and Viasa. ·The uniform language that may be heard in the churches of the most ignorant sects is-"Contemn the unsubstantial shows of the . world; they are vanities, dreams, shadows, unrealities; seek the realities of religion." The devotee flouts nature. Some theosophists have arrived at a certain hostility and indignation towards matter, as the l\fanichean and Plotinus. They distrusted in themselves any looking back to these flesh-pots of Egypt. Plotinus was ashamed of his body_ In short, they might all say of matter what Micha~l Ang;Io said of external beauty, "It is the frail and ~eary weed, m which God dresses the soul which he has called intc time. "

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It appears that motion, poetry, physical and intellectual science, and religion, all tend to affect our convictions of the reality of the external world. But lawn there is something ungrateful in expanding too curiously the particulars of the general proposition, that all culture tends to imbue us with idealism. I have no hostility to nature, but a child's love to it. I expand and live in the warm day like corn and melons. Let us speak her fair. I do not wish to fling stones at my beautiful mother, nor soil my gentle nest. I only wish to indicate the true position of nature in regard t() man, wherein to establish man all right education tends; as the ground which to attain is the object of human life, that is, of man's connection with nature. Culture inverts the vulgar view of nature, and brings the mind to call that apparent which it uses to call real, and that real which it uses to call visionary. Children, it is true, believe in the external world. The belief that it appears only, is an afterthought, but with culture this faith will as surely arise on the mind as did the first. The advantage of the ideal theory over the popular faith is this, that it presents the world in precisely that view which is most desirable to the mind. It is, in fact, the view which Reason, both speCUlative and practical, that is, philosophy and virtue, take. For seen in the light of thought, the world always is phe.. nomenal; and virtue su bordina tes it to the mind. Idealism sees the world in God. It beholds the whole circle of persons and things, of actions and events, of country and religion, not as painfully accumulated, atom after atom, act after act, in an aged creeping Past, but as one vast picture which God paints on the instant eternity for the contemplation of the soul. Therefore the soul holds itself off from a too trivial and microscopic study of the universal tablet. It respects the end too much to immerse it·· self in the means. It sees something more important in Christian.. ity than the scandals of ecclesiastical history or the niceties of criticism; and, very incurious concerning persons or miracles, and not at all disturbed by chasms of historical evidence, it accepts from God the phenomenon, as it finds it, as the pure and awful form of religion in the world. It is not hot and passionate at the appearance of what it calls its own good or bad fortuue,

J4

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at the union or opposition of other persons. No man is its enemy_ It accepts whatsoever befalls, as part of its lesson. It is a watcher more than a doer, and it is a doer, only that it may the better watch.

VII SPIRIT

IT IS essential to a true theory of nature and of man, that it should contain somewhat progressive. Uses that are exhausted or that may be, and facts that end in the statement, cannot be;. all that is true of this brave lodging wherein man is harbored, and wherein all his faculties find appropriate and endless exercise. And all the uses of nature admit of being summed in one, which yields the activity of man an infinite scope. Through all its kingdoms, to the suburbs and outskirts of things, it is faithful to the cause whence it had its origin. It always speaks of Spirit. It suggests the abso .. lute. It ~s a perpetual effect. It is a great shadow pointing always to the sun behind us. The aspect of Nature is devout. Like the figure of Jesus, she stands with bended head, and hands folded upon the breast. The dappiest man is he who learns from nature the lesson of worship. Of that ineffable essence which we call Spirit, he that thinks most, will say least. We can foresee God in the coarse, and, as it were, distant phenomena of matter; but when we try to define and describe himself, both language and thought desert us, and ·Ne are as helpless as fools and savages. That essence refuses to be recorded in propositions, but when man has worshipped him intel. . lectually, the noblest ministry of nature is to stand as the apparition of God. It is the organ through which the universal spirit 3peaks to the individual, and strives to lead back the individual to it. When we consider Spirit, we see that the views already pre. . sented do not include the whole circumference of man. We must add some related thoughts. Three problems are put by nature to the mind: What is mat:':er? Whe~ce is it? and Whereto? The first of these questions only, the Id~al theory answers. Idealism saith: matter is a phe..

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nomenOll, not a substance. Idealism acquaints us with the total disp21 rity bet,veen the evidence of our own being and the evidence. of the world's being. The one is perfect; the other, incapable of any assurance; the mind is a part of the nature of things; the world is a divine dream, from which we may presently awake to the glories and certainties of day. Idealism is a hypothesis to account for nature by other principles than those of carpentry and chemistry. Yet, if it only deny the existence of matter, it does not satisfy the demands of the spirit. It leaves God out of me. It leaves me in the splendid labyrinth of my perception~, to wander without end. Then the heart resists it, because it balks the affertions in denying substantive being to men and women. Nature is so pervaded with human life that there is something of humanity in all and in every particular. But this theory makes nature foreign to Ine, and does not account for that consanguinity which we acknowledge to it. Let it stand then, in the present state of our knowledge, merely as a useful introductory hypothesis, serving to apprize us of the eternal distinction between the soul and the world. But when, following the invisible steps of thoughts, we come to inquire, Whence is matter? and Whereto? many truths arise to us out of the recesses of consciousness. We learn that the highest is present to the soul of man; that the dread universal essence, which is not wisdom, or love, or beauty, or power, but all in one, and each entirely, is that for which all things exist, and that by which they are; that spirit creates; that behind nature, throughout nature, spirit is present; one and not compound it does not act upon us froln without, that is, in space and time, but spiritually, or through ourselves: therefore, that spirit, that is, the Supreme Being, does not build up nature around us, but puts it forth through us, as the life of the tree puts forth new branches and leaves through the pores of the old. As a plant upon the earth, so a man rests upon the bosom of God; be is nourished by un . . failing fountains, and draws at his need inexhaustible power. Who can set bounds to the possibilities of man? Once inhale the upper air, being admitted to behold the absolute natures of jus~ tice and truth, and we learn that man bas access to the entirf

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mind of the Creator, is himself the creator in the finite. This view, which admonishes me where the sources of wisdom and power lie, and points to virtue as to

"The golden key Which opes the palace of eternity," carries upon its face the highest certificate of truth, because it animates me to create my own world through the purification of my soul.

The world proceeds from the same spirit as the body of man. It is a remoter and inferior incarnation of God, a projection of God in the unconscious. But it differs from the body in one im" portant respect. It is not, like that, now subjected to the human will. Its serene order is inviolable by us. It is, therefore, to us, the present expositor of the divine mind. It is a fixed point whereby we may measure our departure. As we degenerate, the contrast between us and our house is more evident. We are as much strangers in nature as we are aliens from God. We do not under.. stand the notes of birds. The fox and the deer run away from us; the bear and tiger rend us. 'Ne do not know the uses of more than a few plants, as corn and the apple, the potato and the vine. Is not the landscape: every glimpse of which hath a grandeur, a face of him? Yet this may show us what di5cord is between mal1 and nature, for you cannot freely admire a noble landscape if laborers are digging in the field hard by. The poet finds some.. thing ridiculous in his delight until he is out of the sight of men.

VIII PROSPECTS

IN

respecting the laws of the world and the frame of things, the highest reason is always the truest. That which seems faintly possible, it is so refined, is often faint and dim because it is deepest seated in the mind among the eternal verities. Empiri.. cal science is apt to cloud the sight, and by the very knowledge of functions and processes to bereave the student of the manly con.. templation of the whole. The savant becomes unpoetic. But the INQUIRms

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best read naturalist who lends an entire and devout attention to truth, will see that there remains much to learn of his relation to the world, and that it is not to be learned by any addition or sub"" traction or other comparison of known quantities, but is arrived at by untaught sallies of the spirit, by a continual self-recovery, and by entire humility. He will perceive that there are far more excellent qualities in the student than preciseness and infallibility; that a guess is often more fruitful than an indisputable affirmation, and that a dream may let us deeper into the secret of nature than a hundred concerted experiments. For the problems to be solved are precisely those which the physiologist and the naturalist omit to state. It is not so pertinent to man to know all the individuals of the animal kingdom, as it is to know whence and whereto is this tyrannizing unity in his constitution, which evermore separates and classifies things, endeavoring to reduce the most diverse to one form. When I behold a rich landscape, it is less to my purpose to recite correctly the order and superposition of the strata, than to know why all thought of n1ultitude is lost in a tranquil sense of unity. I cannot greatly honor minuteness in details, so long as there is no hint to· explain the relation between things and thoughts; no ray upoP. the metaphysics of conchology, of botany, of the arts, to show the relation of the f(, rms of flowers, shells, animals, architecture, to the mind, and build science upon ideas. In a cabinet of natural history, we become sensible of a certain occult recognition and sympathy in regard to the most unwieldy and eccentric form of beast, fish, and insect. The American who has been confined, in his own country, to the sight of buildings designed after foreign models, is surprised on entering York Minster or St. Peter's at Rome, by the feeling that these structures are imitations also~ faint copies of an invisible archetype. Nor has science sufficient humanity, so long as the naturalist overlooks that wonderful con.. gruity which subsists between man and the world; of which he is lord, not because he is the most subtile inhabitant, but because he is its head and heart, and finds something of himself in every great and small thing, in every mountain stratum, in every new law of color, fact of astronomy, or atmospheric influence which

NATURE

observa.tion or analysis lays open. A perception of this mystery inspires the muse of George Herbert, the beautiful psalmist of the seventeenth century. The following lines are part of his little poem on Man. MRn is all symmetry, Full of proportions, one limb to another, And aU to all the world besides. Each part may call the farthest, brother; For head with foot hath private amity, And both with moons and tides.

Nothing hath got so far But man hath caught and kept it as his prey; His eyes dismount the highest star: He is in little all the sphere. Herbs gladly cure our flesh, because that they Find their acquaintance there.

For us, the winds do blow, The earth doth rest, heaven move, and fountains flow';

Nothing we see, but means our good, As our delight, or as our treasure; The whole is either our cupboard of food, Or cabinet of pleasure. The stars have us to bed: Night dra,\\"s the curtain; which the sun withdraws. Music and light attend our head. ,,:\11 things unto our flesh are kind, In their descent and being; to our mind, In their ascent and cause. ~1:ore servants wait

on man Than he'll take notice of. In every path, He treads do)VD. that which doth befriend him When sickness makes him pale and wan. Oh mighty love! Man is one world, and hath Another to attend him. The perception of this class of truths makes the attraction which draws men to science, but the end is lost sight of in atten-

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tion to the means. In view of this half-sight of science, we accept the sentence of Plato, that "poetry comes nearer to vital truth than history." Every surmise and vaticination of the mind is entitled to a certain respect, and we learn to prefer imperfect theories, and sentences which contain glimpses of truth, to digested systems which have no one valuable suggestion. A wise writer will feel that the ends of study and composition are best answered by announcing undiscovered regions of thought, and so communicating, through hope, new activity to the torpid c;pirit. I shall therefore conclude this essay with some tradi Hons of man and nature, which a certain poet sang to me; and which, as they have always been in the world, and perhaps reappear to every bard, may be both history and prophecy. 'The foundations of man are not in matter, but in spirit. But the element of spirit is eternity. To it, therefore, t4e longest series of events, the oldest chronologies are young and :ecent. In the cycle of the universal man, from whom the l:nown individuals proceed, centuries are points, and all history is but the epoch of one degradation. 'We distrust and deny inwardly our sympathy with nature. We own and disown our relation to it, by turns. We are like Nebuchadnezzar, dethroned, bereft of reason, and eating grass like an ox. But who can set limits to the remedial force of spirit? 'A man is a god in ruin. When men are innocent, life shall b& longer, and shall pass into the immortal as gently as we awake from dreams. Now, the world would be insane and rabid, if these disorganizations should last for hundreds of years. It is kept. in check. by death and infancy. Infancy is the perpetual Messiah, which comes into the arms of fallen men, and pleads with them to return to paradise. 'Man is the dwarf of himself. Once he was permeated and dissolved by spirit_ He filled nature with his overflowing currents. Out from him sprang the sun and moon; from man the sun, from woman the moon. The laws of his mind, the periods of his action~ externized themselves into day and night, into the year and th~ seasons. But, having made for himself this huge shell, his water..::

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retired; he no longer fills the veins and veinlets; he is shrunk to a drop. He sees that the structure still fits him, but fits him colas.. sally. Say, rather, once it fitted him, now it corresponds to him from far and on high. He adores timidly his own work. Now is man the follower of the sun, and woman the follower of the mOOD. Yet sometimes he starts in his slumber, and wonders at himself and his house, and muses strangely at the resemblance betwixt him and it. He perceives that if his law is still paramount, if still he have elemental power, if his word is sterling yet in nature, it is not conscious power, it is not inferior but superior to his will. It is instinct.' Thus my Orphic poet sang. At present, man applies to nature but half his force. He works on the world with his understanding alone. He lives in it and mas .. ters it by a penny-wisdom; and he that works most in it is but a half..man, and whilst his arms are strong and his digestion good, bis mind is imbruted, and he is a selfish savage. His relation to" nature, his power over it, is through the understanding, as by manure; the economic use of fire, wind, water, and the mariner's needle; steam., coal, chemical agriculture; the repairs of the human body by the dentist and the surgeon. This is such a rec;umption of power as if a banished king should buy his territories inch by inch, instead of vaulting at once into his throne. Meantime, in the thick darkness, there are not wanting gleams of a better light-occasional examples of the action of man upon nature with his entire force-with reason as well as understanding. Such examples are, the traditions of miracles in the earliest antiquity of all nations; the history of Jesus Christ; the achievements of a principle, as in religious and political revolutions, and ill the abolition of the slave-trade; the miracles of enthusiasm, as those reported of Swedenborg, Hohenlohe, and the Shakers; many obscure and yet contested facts, now arranged under the name of Animal Magnetism; prayer; eloquence; self-healing; and the wisdom of children. These are examples of Reason's momentary grasp of the sceptre; the exertions of a power which exists not in time or space, but an instantaneous in-streaming causing power. The difference between the actual and the ideal force of man is happily figured by the schoolmen, in saying,

that

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the knowledge of man is an evening knowledge, vespertina cog.. nitio, but that of God is a morning knowledge, matutina cognitio. The problem of restoring to the world original and eternal beauty is solved by the redemption of the soul. The ruin or the blank. that we see when we look at nature, is in our own eye, The axis of vision is not coincident with the axis of things, and so they appear not transparent but opaque. The reason why the world lacks unity, and lies broken and in heaps, is because man is disunited with himself. He cannot be a naturalist until he satisfies all the demands of the spirit. Love is as much its demand as perception. Indeed, neither can be perfect without the other, In the uttermost meaning of the words, thought is devout, and devotion is thought. Deep calls unto deep. But in actual life, the marriage is not celebrated. There are innocent men who worship God after the tradition of their fathers, but their sense of duty lias not yet extended to the use of all their faculties. And ther~ are patient naturalists, but they freeze their subject under the wintry light of the understanding. Is not prayer also a study of truth-a sally of the soul into the unfound infinite? No man ever prayed heartily without learning something. But when a faithful thinker, resolute to detach every object from personal relations and see it in the light of thought, shall, at the same time, kindle science with the fire of the holiest affections, then will God go forth .. anew into the creation . It will not need, when the mind is prepared for study, to search for objects. The invariable mark of wisdom is to see the miraculous in the common. What is a day? What is a year? What is summer? What is woman? What is a child? What is sleep? To our blindness, these things seem unaffecting. We make fables to hide the baldness of the fact and conform it, as we say, to the higher law of the mind. But when the fact is seen under the light of an idea, the gaudy fable fades and shrivels. We behold the real higher law. To the wise, therefore, a fact is true poetry, and the most beautiful of fables. These wonders are brought to our own deor. You also are a man. Man and woman and their social life, poverty, labor, sleep, fear, fortune, are known to you. Learn that none of these things is superficial, but that each phenomenon bas

42

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its roots in the faculties and affections of the mind. Whilst the abstract question occupies your intellect, nature brings it in the concrete to be solved by your hands. It were a wise inquiry for the closet, to compare, point by point, especially at remarkable crises in life, our c1aily history with the rise and progress of ideas in the mind. So shall we come to look at the world with new eyes. It shall answer the endless inquiry of the intellect-What is truth? and of the affections-vVhat is good? by yielding itself passive to the, educated 'Ville Then shall come to pass what my poet said: 'Nature is not fixed but fluid. Spirit alters, moulds . makes it. The immobility or bruteness of nature is the absence of spirit; to pure spirit it is fluid, it is volatile, it is obedient. Every spirit builds itself a house, and beyond its house a world, and beyond its world a ,heaven. Know then that the world exists for you. For you is the phenomenon perfect. What we are, that only can we see. All that Adam had, all that Cresar eQuId, you have and can do. Adam called his house, heaven and earth; Cresar called his house, Rome; you perhaps call yours, a cobbler's trade; a hundred acres of ploughed land; or a scholar's garret. Yet line for line and point for point your dominion is as great as theirs, though without fine names. Build therefore your own world. As fast as you conform your life to the pure idea in your mind, that will unfold its great proportions. A correspondent revolution in things will attend. the infiu."t of the spirit. So fast will disagreeable appearances, swine, spiders, snakes, pests, mad-houses, prisons, enemies, vanish; they are temporary and shall be no more seen. The sordor and filths of nature, the sun shall dry up and the wind exhale. As when the summer comes from the south the snow-banks melt and the face of the earth becomes green before it, so shall the advancing spirit create its ornaments along its path, and carry with it the beauty it visits and the song which enchants it; it shall draw beautiful faces, warm hearts: wise discourse, and heroic acts, around its way, until evil is no more seen. The kingdom of man over nature, which cometh not with observation-a dominion such as now is beyond his dream. of God-he shall enter without more wonder than the blind man feels who is gradually restored to sight.'

THE AMERICAN SCI10LAR [This is the Phi Beta Kappa address that Emerson delivered at Harvard in 1837- It was received witll great enthusiasm.]

AN ADDRESS [This address was delivered before the senior class of the Harvard Divinity School on SUlnday evening, July 15, 1838. Emerson had been invited to give it, not by the officers of the school, but by the senior class. Vllhat Emerson said was so objectionable to many clergymen that the officers oj the School publicly disclain'ted responsibility jor it. Nearly thirty years passed before Emerson was invited again to speak at Harvard.]

AN ADDRESS IN

THIS refulgent summer, it has been a luxury to draw the

breath of life. The grass grows, the buds burst, the meadow is spotted with fire and gold in the tint of flowers. The air is full of birds, and sweet with the breath of the pine, the balm..of.. Gilead, and the new hay. Night brings no gloom to the heart with its welcome shade. Through the transparent darkness the stars pour their almost spiritual rays. l\lan under them seems a young child, and his huge globe a toy. The cool night bathes the world as with a river, and prepares his eyes again for the crimson dawn. The mystery of nature was never displayed more happily. Th~ corn and the wine have been freely dealt to all creatures, and the never-broken silence with which the old bounty goes forward has not yielded yet one word of explanation. One is constrained to respect the perfection of this world in which our senses can.. verse. How wide; how rich; what invitation from every property it gives to every faculty of man! In its fruitful soils; in its navi, gable sea; in its mountains of metal and stone; in its forests of all woods; in its animals; in its chemical ingredients; in the powers and path of light, heat, attraction and life, it is well worth the pith and heart of great men to subdue and enj oy it. The planters, the mechanics, the inventors, the astronomers, the builders of cities, and the captains, history delights to honor. But when the mind opens and reveals the laws which traverse the universe and make things what they are, then 5hrinks the great world at once into a mere illustration and fable of this mind .. \Vhat am I? and What is? asks the hUlnan spirit with a curiosity new-kindled, but never to be quenched. Behold these outrunning laws, which our imperfect apprehension can see tend this way and that, but not come full circle. Behold these infinite relations, So' like, so unlike; many, yet one. I would study, I would know, I would admire forever. These works of thought have been the entertainments of the human spirit in all ages. 67

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and all things conspire with it. Whilst a man seeks good ends, he is strong by the whole strength of nature. In so far as he roves from these ends, he bereaves himself of power, or auxiliaries; his being shrinks out of all remote channels, he becomes less and less, a mote, a point, until absolute badness is absolute death. The perception of this law of laws awakens in the mind a sentiment which we call the religious sentiment, and which makes our highest happiness. Wonderful is its power to charm and to command. It is a mountain air. It is the embalmer of the world. It is rrlyrrh and storax, and chlorine and rosemary. It makes the sky and the hills sublime, and the silent song of the stars is it. By it is the universe made safe and habitable, not by science or power. Thought may work cold and intransitive in things, and find no end or unity; but the dawn of the sentiment of virtue on the heart, gives and is the assurance that Law is sovereign over all natures; and the worlds, time, space, eternity, do seem to break out into joy. This sentiment is divine and deifying. It is the beatitude of • man. It makes him illimitable. Through it, the soul first knows itself. It corrects the capital mistake of the infant man, who seeks to be great by following the great, and hopes to derive advantages from another-by showing the fountain of all good to be in himself, and that he, equally with every man, is an inlet into the deeps of Reason. \Vhen he says, "1 ought;" when love warms him; when he chooses, warned from on high, the good and great deed; then, deep melodies wander through his soul from Supreme \Visdom. Then he can worship, and be enlarged by his worship; for he can never go behind this sentiment. In the sub .. limest flights of the soul, rectitude is never surmounted, love is never outgrown . This sentiment lies at the foundation of society, and succes.. sively creates all forms of worship. The principle of veneration never dies out . Man fallen into superstition, into sensuality, is never quite without the visions of the moral sentin1ent. In like manner, all the expressions of this sentiment are sacred and per.. manent in proportion to their purity_ The expressions of this sentiment affect us more than all other compositions. The sen-

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tences of the oldest time, which ejaculate this piety, are still fresh and fragrant. This thought dwelled always deepest in the minds of men in the devout and contemplative East; not alone in Palestine, where it reached its purest expression, but in Egypt, in Persia, in India, in China. Europe has always owed to oriental genius its divine impulses. What these holy bards said, all sane men found agreeable and true. And the unique impression of Jesus upon mankind, whose name is not so much written as ploughed into the history of this world, is proof of the subtle virtue of this

infusion. Meantime, whilst the doors of the temple stand open, night and day, before every man, and the oracles of this truth cease never, it is guarded by one stern condition; this, namely, it is an intuition. It cannot be received at second hand. Truly speaking, it is not instructioIi, but provocation, that I can receive from another soul. What he announces, I must find true in me, or reject; and on his word, or as his second, be he who he may, I can accept nothing. On the contrary, the absence of this primary faith is the presence of degradation. As is the flood, so is the ebb. Let this faith depart, and the very words it spake and the things it made become false and hurtful. Then falls the church, the state, art, letters, life. The doctrine of the divine nature being forgotten, a sickness infects and dwarfs the constitution. Once man was all; now he is an appendage, a nuisance. And because the indwelling Supreme Spirit cannot wholly be got rid of, the doctrine of it suffers this perversion, that the divine nature is attributed to ore or two persons, and denied to all the rest, and denied with fury. The doctrine of inspiration is lost; the base doctrine of the majority of voices usurps the place of the doctrine of the soul. Miracles, prophecy, poetry, the ideal life, the holy life, exist as ancient history merely; they are not in the belief, nor in the aspi. . ration of society; but, when suggested, seem ridiculous. Life is comic or pitiful as soon as the high ends of being fade out of sight, and man becomes near-sighted, and can only attend tu what addresses the senses. These general views, which, whilst they are general, none will contest, find abundant illustration in the history of religion, and

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especially in the history of the Christian church. In that, all of ' us have had our birth and nurture. The truth contained in that, you, my young friends, are now setting forth to teach. As the Cultus, or established worship of the civilized world, it has great historical interest for us. Of its blessed words, which have been the consolation of humanity, you need not that I should speak. I shall endeavor to discharge my duty to you on this occasion, by pointing out two errors in its administration, which daily appear more gross from the point of view we have just now taken. Jesus Christ belonged to the true race of prophets. He saw with open eye the mystery of the soul. Drawn by its severe harmony, ravished with its beauty, he lived in it, and had his being there. Alone in all history he estimated the greatness of man. One man was true to what is in you and me. He saw that God in.. carnates himself in man, and evermore goes forth anew to take possession of his \Vorld. He said, in this jubilee of sublime emo.. tion, 'I am divine. Through me, God acts; through me, speaks. \Vould you see God, see me; or see thee, when thou also thinkest as I now think.' But what a distortion did his doctrine and memory suffer in the same, in the next, and the following ages! There is no doctrine of the Reason which will beaL to be taught by the Understanding. The understanding caught this high chant from the poet's lips, and said, in the next age, ~1'his was Jebovah come do~n out of heaven. I will kill you, if you say he was a man.' The idioms of his language and the figures of his rhetoric have usurped th~ place of his truth; and churches are not built on his principles, but on his tropes. Christianity became a ~Iythus, as the poetic teaching of Greece and of Egypt, before. He spoke of miracles; " for he felt that man's life was a miracle, and all that man doth, " and he knew that this daily miracle shines as the character RScends. But the word l\liracle, as pronounced by Christian churches, gives a false impression; it is lVlonster . It is not one with the blowing clover and the falling rain . He felt respect for l\loses and the prophets, but no unfit ten . . derness at postponing their initial revelations to the hour and the man that now is; to the eternal revelation in the heart. Thus was he a true man. Having seen that the law in us is commanding. he

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would not suffer it to be commanded. Boldly, with hand, and heart, and life, he declared it was God. Thus is he, as I think, the only soul in history who has appreciated the worth of man. I. In this point of view we become sensible of the first defect of historical Christianity. Historical Christianity has fallen into the error that corrupts all attempts to communicate religion. As it appears to us, and as it has appeared for ages, it is not the doctrine of the soul, but an exaggeration of the personal, the positive, the ritual. It has dwelt, it dwells, with noxious exaggeration about the person of Jesus. The soul knows no persons. It invites every man to expand to the full circle of the universe, and will have no preferences but those of spontaneous love. But by this eastern monarchy of a Christianity, which indolence and fear have built, the friend of man is made the injurer of man. The manner in which his name is surrounded with expressions which were once sallies of admiration and love, but are now petrified into official titles, kills all generous sympathy and liking. All who hear me, feel that the language that describes Christ to Europe' and America is not the style of friendship and enthusiasm to a good and noble heart, but is appropriated and formal-paints a demigod, as the Orientals or the Greeks would describe Osiris or Apollo. Accept the injurious impositions of our early catechetical instruction, and even honesty and self-denial were but splendid sins, if they did not wear the Christian name. One would rather be "A pagan, suckled in a creed outworn," than to be defrauded of his manly right in coming into nature and finding not names and places, not land and professions, but even virtue and truth foreclosed and monopolized. You shall not be a man even. You shall not own the world; you shall not dare and live after the infinite Law that is in you, and in company with the infinite Beauty which heaven and earth reflect to you in all lovely forms; but you must subordinate your nature to Christ's nature; you must accept our interpretations, and take his portrait as the vulgar draw it. That is always best which gives me to myself. The sublime is excited in me by the great stoical doctrine, Obey thyself. That

AN ADDRESS 74 which shows God in me, fortifies me. That which shows God out of me, makes me a wart and a wen. There is no longer a necessary reason for my being. Already the long shadows of untimely oblivion creep over me, and I shall decease forever. The divine bards are the friends of my virtue, of my intellect, of my strength. They admonish me that the gleams which flash across my mind are not mine, but God's; that they had the like, and were not disobedient to the heavenly vision. So I love them. Noble provocations go out from them, inviting me to resist evil; to subdue the world; and to Be. And thus, by his holy thoughts, Jesus serves us, and thus only. To aim to convert a man by miracles is a profanation of the soul. A true conversion, a true Christ, is now, as always, to be made by the reception of beautiful senti. . ments. It is true that a great and rich soul, like his, falling among the simple, does so preponderate, that, as hi'" did, it names the world . The world seems to them to exist f01 him, and they have not yet drunk so deeply of his sense as to see that only by coming again to themselves, or to God in themselves, can they grow forevermore. It is a low benefit to give me something; it is a high benefit to enable me to do somewhat of myself. The time is com.. ing when all men will see that the gift of God to the soul is not a vaunting, overpowering, excluding sanctity, but a sweet, natural goodness, a goodness like thine and mine, and that so invItes thine and mine to be and to grow. The injustice of the vulgar tone of preaching is not less flagrant to Jesus than to the souls which it profanes. The preachers do not see that they make his gospel not glad, and shear him of the locks of beauty and the attributes of heaven. When I 3ee ~. majestic Epaminondas, or Washington; when I see among my contemporaries a true orator, an upright judge, a dear friend; when I vi.. brate to the melody and fancy of a poem; i see beauty that is to be desired. And so lovely, and with yet more entire consent of my human being, sounds in my ear the c;evere music of the bards that have sung of the true God in all ages. Now do not degrade the life and dialogues of Christ out of the circle of this charm, by insulation and peculiarity. Let them lie as they befell, alive and warm, part of human life and the landscape and the cheerful day.

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The second defect of the traditionary and limited way of using the mind of Christ is a consequence of the first; this, namely; that the Moral Nature, that Law of laws whose revelations introduce greatness-yea, God himself-into the open soul, is not explored as the fountain of the established teaching in society. Men have come to speak of the revelation as somewhat long ago given and done, as if God were dead. The injury to faith throttles the preacher; and the goodliest of institutions becomes an uncertain and inarticulate voice. It is very certain that it is the effect of conversation with the beauty of the soul, to beget a desire and need to impart to others the same knowledge and love. If utterance is denied, the thought lies like a burden on the man. Always the seer is a sayer. Somehow his dream is told; somehow he publishes it with solemn joy: sometimes with pencil on canvas, sometimes with chisel on stone, sometimes in towers and aisles of granite, his soul's worship is builded; sometimes in anthems of indefinite music; but clearest and most permanent, in words. The man enamored of this excellency becomes its priest or poet. The office is coeval with the world. But observe the condition, the spiritual linlitation of the office. The spirit only can teach. Not any profane man, not any sensual, not any liar, not any slave can teach, but only he can give, who has; he only can create, who is. The man on whom the soul descends, through whom the soul speaks, alone can teach. Courage, piety, love, wisdom, can teach; and every man can open his door to these angels, and they shall bring him the gift of tongues. But the man who aims to speak as books e11able, as synods use, as the fashion guides, and as interest commands, babbles. Let him hush. To this holy office you propose to devote yourselves. I wish you may feel your call in throbs of desire and hope. The office is the first in the world. It is of that reality that it cannot suffer the deduction of any falsehood. And it is my duty to say to you that the need was never greater of new revelation than now. From, the views I have already expressed, you will infer the sad conviction, which I share, I believe, with numbers, of the universal decay and now almost death of faith in society. The soul 2.

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is not preach~d. The Church seems to totter to its fall, almost all life extinct. On this occasion, any complaisance would be criminal which told you, whose hope and commission it is to preach the faith of Christ, that the faith of Christ is preached. It is time that this ill-suppressed murmur of all thoughtful men against the famine of our churches; this moaning of the heart because it is bereaved of the consolation, the hope, the grandeur that come alone out of the culture of the moral natureshould be heard through the sleep of indolence, and over the din of routine. This great and perpetual office of the preacher is not discharged. Preaching is the expression of the moral sentiment in application to the duties of life. In bow many churches, by how many prophets, tell me, is man made sensible that he is an infinite Soul; that the earth and heavens are passing into his mind; that he is drinking forever the soul of God? Where now sounds the persuasion, that by its very melody imparadises my heart, and so affirms its own origin in heaven? Where shall I hear words such as in elder ages drew men to leave all and follow-father and mother, house and land, wife and child? Where shall I hear these august laws of moral being so pronounced as to fill my ear, and I feel ennobled by the offer of my uttermost action and passion? The test of the true faith, certainly, should be its power to charm and command the soul, as the laws of nature control the activity of the handsso commanding that we find pleasure and honor in obeying. The faith should blend with the light of rising and of setting suns, with the flying cloud, the singing bird, and the breath of flowers. But now the priest's Sabbath has lost the splendor of nature; it is unlovely; we are glad when it is done; we can 'make, we do make, even sitting in our pews, a far better, holier, sweeter, for ourselves. Whenever the pUlpit is usurped by a formalist, then is the worshipper defrauded and disconsolate. \Ve shrink as soon as the prayers begin, which do not uplift, but smite and offend us. We are fain to wrap our cloaks about us, and secure, as best we can, a solitude that hears not. I once heard a preacher who sorely tempted me to say I would go to church no more.

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go, thought I, where they are wont to go, else had no soul entered the temple in the afternoon. A snow..storm was falling around us. The snow-storm was real, the preacher merely spectral, and the eye felt the sad contrast in looking at him, and then out of the window behind him into the beautiful meteor of the snow. He had lived in vain. He had no one word intimating that he had laughed or wept, was married or in love, had been commended, or cheated, or chagrined. If he had ever lived and acted, we were none the wiser for it. The capital secret of his profession, namely, to convert life into truth, he had not learned. Not one fact in all his experience had he yet imported into his doctrine. This man had ploughed and planted and talked and bought and sold; he had read books; he had eaten and drunken; his head aches, his heart throbs; he smiles and suffers; yet was there not a surmise, a hint, in all the dis... course, that he had ever lived at alL Not a line did he draw out of real history. The true preacher can be known by this, that he deals out to the people his life-life passed through the fire of thought. But of the bad preacher, it could not be told from his sermon what age of the world he fell in; whether he had a father or a child; whether he was a freeholder or a pauper; whether he was a citizen or a countryman; or any other fact of his biography. It seemed strange that the people should come to church. It seemed as if their houses were very unentertaining, that they should prefer this thoughtless clamor. It shows that there is a commanding attraction in the moral sentiment, that can lend a faint tint of light to dulness and ignorance coming in its name and place. The good hearer is sure he has been touched sometimes; is sure there is some.. what to be reached, and some word that can reach it. When he listens to these vain words, he comforts himself by their relation to his remembrance of better hours, and so they clatter and echo unchallenged. I am not ignorant that when we preach unworthily, it is not always quite in vain. There is a good ear, in some men, that draws supplies to virtue out of very indifferent nutriment. There is poetic truth concealed in all the commonplaces of

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prayer and of sermons, and though foolishly spoken, they may be wisely heard; for each is some select eA-pression that broke out in a moment of piety from some stricken or jubilant soul, and its excellency made it remembered. The prayers and even the dogmas of our church are like the zodiac of Denderah and the astronomical monuments of the Hindoos, wholly insulated from anything now extant in the life and business of the people. They mark the height to which the waters once rose. But this docility is a check upon the mischief from the good and devout. In a large portion of the community, the religious service gives rise to quite other thoughts and emotions. We need not chide the negligent servant. ,\\Te are struck with pity, rather, at the swift retribution of his sloth. Alas for the unhappy man that is called to stand in the pulpit, and not give bread of life. Everything that befalls, accuses him. Would he ask contributions for the missions, foreign or dOlnestic? Instantly his face is suffused with shame, to propose to his parish that they should send money a hundred or a thousand miles, to furnish such poor fare as they have at home and would do well to go the hundred or the thousand miles to escape. Would he urge people to a godly way of living; and can he ask a fellow .. creature to come to Sabbath meetings, when he and they all know what is the poor uttermost they can hope for therein? Will he invite them privately to the Lord's Supper? He dares not. If no heart warm this rite, the hollow, dry, creaking formality is too plain, than that he can face a man of wit and energy and put the invitation without terror. In the street, what has he to say to the bold village blasphemer? The village blasphemer sees fear in the face, form, and gait of the minister. Let me not taint the sincerity of this plea by any oversight of th~ claims of good men. I know and honor the purity and strict conscience of numbers of the clergy. What life the public worship retains, it owes to the scattered company of pious men who minister here and there in the churches, and who, some~ times accepting with too great tenderness the tenet of the elders, have not accepted frum others, but from their own heart, the genuine impulses of virtue, and so still command our love and

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awe, to the sanctity of character. 1\tloreover, the exceptions are not so much to be found in a few eminent preachers, as in the better hours, the truer inspirations of all-nay, in the sinc~re moments of every man. But, with whatever exceptioD, It is still true that tradition characterizes the preaching vI this co un.. try; that it comes out of the memory, and not out: of the soul; that it aims at what is usual, and not at what is necessary and eternal; that thus historical Christianity destroys the power of preaching, by withdrawing it from the exploration of the moral nature of man; where the sublime is, where are the resources of astonishment and power. What a cruel injustice it is to that Law, the joy of the whole earth, which alone can make thought dear and rich; that Law whose fatal sureness the astronomical orbits poorly emulate; that it is travestied and depreciated, that it is behooted and behowled, and not a trait, not a word of it articulated. The pulpit in losing sight of this Law, loses its reason, and gropes after it knows not what. And for want of this culture the soul of the community is sick and faithless. It wants nothing so much as a stern, high, stoical~ Christian discipline, to make it know itself and the divinity that speaks through it. Now man is ashamed of himself; he skulks and sneaks through the world, to be tolerated, to be pitied, and scarcely in a thousand years does any man dare to be wise and good, and so draw after him the tears and blessings of his kind . Certainly there have been periods when, from the inactivity of the intellect on certain truths, a greater faith was possible in names and persons. The Puritans in England and America found in the Christ of the Catholic Church and in the dogmas inherited from Rome, scope for their austere piety and their longings for civil freedom. But their creed is passing away, and none arises in its room. I think no man can go with his thoughts about him into one of our churches, without feeling that what hold the public worship had on men is gone, or going. It has lost its grasp on the affection of the good and the fear of the bad. In the country, neighborhoods, half parishes are signing off, to use the local term. It is already beginning to indicate char-

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acter and religion to withdraw from the religious meetings. I have heard a devout person, who prized the Sabbath, say in bitterness of heart, "On Sundays, it seems wicked to go to church." And the motive that holds the best there is now only a hope and a waiting. 'Vhat was once a mere circumstance, that the best and the worst men in the parish, the poor and the rich, the learned and the ignorant, young and old, should meet one day as fellows in one house, in sign of an equal right in the soul, has come to be a paramount motive for going thither. l\Iy friends, in these two errors, I think, I find the causes of a decaying church and a wasting unbelief. And what greater calamity can fall upon a nation than the loss of worship? Then all things go to decay. Genius leaves the temple to haunt the senate or the market. Literature becomes frivolous. Science is cold. The eye of youth is not lighted by the hope of other worlds, and age is without honor. Society lives to trifles, and when men die we do not mention them. And now, my brothers, you will ask, \Vhat in these desponding days can be done by us? The remedy is already declared in the ground of our complaint of the Church. \,Ve have contrasted the Church with the SouL In the soul then let the redemption be sought. ,\Vherever a nlan comes, there comes revolution. The old is for slaves. \¥hen a man comes, all books are legible, all things transparent, all religions are forms. He is religious. Man is the wonderworker. He is seen amid miracles. All men bless and curse. He saith yea and nay, only. The stationariness of religion; the assumption that the age of inspiration is past, that the Bible is closed; the fear of degrading the character of Jesus by representing him as a man; indicate with sufficient clearness the falsehood of our theology. It is' the office of a true teacher to show us that God is, not was; that He speaketh, not spake. The true Christianity-a faith like Christ's in the infinitude of men-is lost. None believeth in the soul of man but only in some man or person old and departed. Ah me! n~ ma~ ~oeth alone. All men go in flocks to this saint or that poet, aVOIdIng the God who seeth in secret. They cannot see in secret; they love to be blind in pUblic. They think society wiser

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than their SOH1, and know not that one soul, and their soul, is wiser than the whole world. See how nations and races fiit by on the sea of time and leave no ripple to tell where they floated or sunk~ and one good soul shall make the name of Moses, or of Zeno, or of Zoroaster, reverend forever. None assayeth the stern ambition to be the Self of the nation and of nature, but each would be an easy secondary to some Christian scheme, or sectarian connection, or some eminent man. Once leave your own knowledge of God, your own sentiment, and take secondary knowledge, as St. Paul's, or George Fox's, or Swedenborg's, and you get wide from God with every year this secondary form lasts, and if, as now, for centuries-the chasm yawns to that breadth, that men can scarcely be convinced there is in them anything divine. Let me admonish you, first of all, to go alone; to refuse the good models, even those which are sacred in the imagination of men, and dare to love God without mediator or veil. Friends enough you shall find who will hold up to your emulation Wesleys and Oberlins, Saints and Prophets. Thank God for these good men, but say, 'I also am a man.' Imitation cannot go above its model. The imitator dooms hlmself to hopeless mediocrity. The inventor did it because it was natural to him, and so in him it has a charm. In the imitator something else is natural, and he bereaves himself of his own beauty, to come short of another man's. Yourself a newborn bard of the Holy, Ghost, cast behind you all conformity, and acquaint men at first band with Deity. Look to it first and only, t,hat f!l~hion, custoIB, authority, pleE-sure, and money, are nothing to you-are not bandages over Your eyes, that you cannot see-but live with the privilege of the immeasurable mind. Not too anxious to visit periodically all families and each family in your parish connection-when you meet 9ne of these men or women, be to them a divine man; be to them thought and virtue; let their timid aspirations find in you a friend; let their trampled instincts be genially tempted out in your atmosphere; let their doubts know that you have doubted, and their wonder feel that you h'lve won-

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dered. By trusting your own heart, you shall gain more can.. }fidence in other men. For all our penny-wisdom, for all our soul-destroying slavery to habit, it is not to be doubted that all men have sublime thoughts; that all men value the few real hours of life; they love to be heard;.. they love be caught f up into the vision of principles. 'Ve mark with light in the memory the few interviews we have had, in the dreary years of routine and of sin, with souls that made our souls wiser; that spoke what we thought; that told us what we knew; that gave us leave to be what we inly were. Discharge to men the priestly office, and, present or absent, you shall be followed with their love as by an angel. And, to this end, let us not aim at common degrees of merit. Can we not leave, to such as love it, the virtue that glitters for the commendation of society, and ourselves pierce the deep solitudes of absolute ability and worth? We" easily come up to the standard of goodness in society. Society's praise can be cheaply secured, and almost all men are content with those easy merits; but the instant effect of conversing with God will be to put them away_ There are persons who are not actors, not speakers, but influences; persons too great for fame, for display; who disdain eloquence; to whom all we call art and artist, seems too nearly allied to show and by-ends, to the exaggeration of the finite and selfish, and loss of the universal. The orators, the poets, the commanders encroach on us only ~ fair women do, by our allowance and homage. Slight them by preoccupation of mind, slight them, as you can well afford to do, by high and universal aims, and they instantly feel that you have right, and that it is in lower places that they must shine. They also feel your right; for they with you are open to the influx of the all-knowing Spirit, which annihilates before its broad noon the little shades and gradations of intelligence in the compositions we call wiser and wisest. In such high communion let us study the grand strokes of rectitude: a bold benevolence, an independence of friends, so that not the unjust wishes of those who love us shall impair our freedom, but we shall resist for truth's sake the freest flow

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of kindness, and appeal to sympathies far in advance; and~ what is the highest form in which we know this beautiful element-a certain solidity of merit, that bas nothing to do with opinion, and which is so essentially and manifestly virtue, that it is taken for granted tliat the right, the brave, the generous step will be taken by it, and nobody thinks of commending it. You would compliment a coxcomb doing a good act, but you would not praise an angel. The silence that accepts merit as the most natural thing in the world, is the highest applause. Such souls, when they appear, are the In1perial Guard of Virtue, the perpetual reserve, the dictators of fortune. One needs not praise their courage-they are the heart and soul of nature. o my friends, there are resources in us on which we have not drawn. There are men who rise refreshed on hearing a threat; men to whom a crisis which intimidates and paralyzes the majority-demanding not the faculties of prudence and thriftl but comprehension, immovableness, ~he readip.ess of sacrificeCaInes graceful and beloved as a bride. Napoleon said of Mas . . sena, that he was not himself until the battle began to go against him; then, when the dead began to fall in ranks arouPd him, awoke his powers of col!Jbinatiop., and he put on terror and victory as a robe. So it is in rugged crises, in unweariable endurance, and in aims which ~put sympathy out of question that the angel is shown. But these are heights that we can scarce reinember and look ~up to without contrition and shame. Let us thank God that 'such things exist. And now let us do what we can to rekindle the smouldering, nigh quenched fire on the altar. The evils of the church that now is are manifest .. The question returns, \Vhat shall we do? I confess, all attempts to project and establish a Cultus with new rites and forms, seem to me vain. Faith makes us, and not we it, and faith n1akes its own forms. All attempts to contrive a system are as cold as the new worship introduced by the French to the goddess of Reason-to-day, pasteboard and filigree, and ending to-morrow in madness and murder. Rather let the breath of new life be breathed by you through the forrn.s already existing. For if once you are alive, you shall find they l

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shall become plastic and new. The remedy to their deformity is first, soul, and second, soul, and evermore, soul. A whole popedom of forms one pulsation of virtue can uplift and vivify. Two inestimable advantages Christianity has given us; ,first the Sabbath, the jubilee of the whole world, whose light dawns welcome alike into the closet of the philosopher, into the garret of toil, and into prison-cells, and everywhere suggests, even to the vile, the dignity of spiritual being. Let it stand forever·· more, a temple, \vhich new love, new faith, new sight shall restore to more than its first splendor to mankind. And secondly, the institution of preaching-the speech of man to men-~ essentially the most flexible of all organs, ·1£ all forms. JV'hat hinders that no\v, everywhere, in pulpits, in lecture-rooms, in houses, in fields, wherever the invitation of men or your own occasions lead you, you speak the very truth, as your life and congcience teach it, and cheer the waiting, fainting hearts of men with new hope and new revelation? I look for the hour when that supreme Beauty which ravished the souls of those Eastern men, and chiefly of those Hebrews, and through their lips spoke oracles to all time, shall speak in the West also. The Hebrew and Greek Scriptures contain immortal sentences, that have been bread of life to millions. But they have no epical integrity; are fragmentary; are not shown in their order to the intellect. I look for the new "Teacher that shall follow so far those shining laws that he shall see them come full circle; shall see their rounding complete grace; shall see the world to be the mirror of the soul; shall see the identity of the law of gravitation with purity of heart; and shall show that the Ought, that Duty, is one thing with Science, with Beauty, and with Joy-

THE TRANSCENDENTALIST [This was the fourth oj a series of eight lectures can "The Times" which Emerson delivered at the ~!lasonic Temple in Boston in the winter of 1841-42. It was printed in The Dial j4J1 January, 1843.]

THE TRANSCENDENTALIsrr first thing we have to say respecting what are called new views here in New E.ngland, at the present time, is, that they are not new, but the very oldest of thoughts cast into the mould of these new times. The light is always identical in its position, but it falls on a great variety of objects, and by so falling is first revealed to us, not in its own form, for it is formless, but in theirs; in like manner, thought· only appears in the objects it classifies. What is popularly called Transcendentalism among us, is Idealism; Idealism as it appears in 1842. As thinkers, mankind have ever divided into two sects, Materialists and Idealists; the first class founding on experience, the second on consciousness; the first class beginning to think from the data of the senses, the second class perceive that the senses are not final, and say, The senses give us representations of things, but what are the things themselves, they cannot telL The materialist insists on facts, on history, on the force of circumstances and the animal wants of man; the idealist on the power of Thought and of Will, on inspiration, on miracle) on individual culture. These two modes of thinking are b€>th natural, but the idealist contends that his way of thinking is in higher nature. He concedes all that the other affirms, admits the impressions of sense, admits their coherency, their use and beauty, and then asks the materialist for his grounds of assurance that things are as his senses represent them. But I, he says, affirm facts not affected by the illusions of sense, facts which are of the same nature as the faculty which reports them, and not liable to doubt; facts which in their first appearance to us assume a native superiority to material facts, degrading these into a language by which the first are to be spoken; facts which it only needs a retirement from the senses to discern. Every materialist will be an idealist; but an idealist can never gQ bacl{ward to be a materialist.

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The idealist, in speaking of events, sees them as spirits. He does not deny the sensuous fact: by no means; but he will not see that alone. He does not deny the presence of this table, this chair, and the walls of tbis room, but he lool~s at these things as the reverse side of the tapestry, as the other end, each being a sequel or completion of a spiritual fact which nearly concerns him. This manner of looking at things transfer.s every object in nature from an independent and anomalous position without there, into the consciousness. Even the materialist Condillac, perhaps the most logical expounder of materialism, was constrained to say, "Though we should soar into the heavens, though we should sink into the abyss, we never go out of ourselves; it is always our own thoughts that we perceive." What more could an idealist say? The materialist, secure in the certainty of sensation, mocks at fine-spun theories, at star-gazers and dreams, and believes that his life is solid, that he at least takes nothing for granted, but knows where he stands, and what he does. Yet how easy it is to show him that he also is a phantom walking and working amid phantoms, and that he need only ask a question or two beyond his daily questions to find his solid universe growing dim and impalpable before his sense. The sturdy capitalist, no matter how deep and square on blocks of Quincy granite he lays the foundations of his banking-house or Exchange, must set it, at last, not on a cube corresponding to the angles of his structure, but on a mass of unknown materials and solidity, redhot or white-hot perhaps at the core, which rounds off to an almost perfect sphericity, and lies floating in soft air, and goes spinning away, dragging bank and banker with it at a rate of thousands of miles the hour, he knows not whitber-a bit of bullet, now glimmering, now darkling through a small cubic space on the edge of an unimaginable pit of emptiness. And this wild balloon, in which his whole venture is embarked, is a just symbol of his whole state and faculty. One thing at least, he says, is certain, and does not give me the headache, that figures do not lie; the multiplication table has been hitherto found unimpeachable truth; and, moreover, if I put a gold

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eagle in my safe, I find it again to-morrow; but for these thoughts, I know not whence they are. They change and pass away. But ask him why he believes that an uniform experience will continue uniform, or on what grounds he founds his faith in his figures, and he will perceive that his mental fabric is built up on just as strange and quaking foundations as his proud edifice of stone. In the order of thought, the materialist takes his departure from the external world, and esteems a man as one product of that. The idealist takes his departure from his consciousness, and reckons the world an appearance. The materialist respects sensible masses, Society, Government, social art and luxury,. every establishment, every mass, whether majority of numbers, or extent of space, or amount of objects, every social action The idealist has another measure, which is metaphysical, namely the rank which things themselves take in his consciousness; not at all the size or appearance. l\1ind is the only re(l.lity, of which men and all other natures are better or '¥orse reflectors. Nature, literature, history, are only subjective phenomena. Although in his action overpowered by the laws of action, and so, warmly co-operating with nlen, _even preferring them to himself, yet when he speaks scientifically, or after the order of thought, he is constrained to degrade persons into representatives of trutns. He does not respect labor, or the products of labor, namely property, otherwise than as a manifold symbol, illustrating with wonderful fidelity of details the laws of being; he does not respect government, except as far as it reiterates the law of his mind; nor the church, nor charities, nor arts, for themselves; but hears, as at a vast distance, what they say, as if his con. . sciousness would speak to him through a pantomimic scene. His thought-that is the Universe. His experience inclines him to behold the procession of facts you call the world, as flowing perpetually outward from an invisible, unsounded centre in himself, centre alike of him and of them, and necessitating him to regard all things as having a subjective Ot relative existence, relative to that aforesaid Unknown Centre of him. From this transfer of the world into the consciousness, this

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beholding of all things in the mind, follow easily his whole ethics. It is simpler to be self-dependent. The height, the deity of man is to be self-sustained, to need no gift, no foreign force. , Society is good when it does not violate me, but best when it is likest to solitude. Everything real is self-existent. Everything divine shares the self-existence of Deity. All that you call the world is the shadow of that substance which you are, the perpetual creation of the powers of thought, of those that are dependent and of those that are independent of your will. Do not cumber yourself with fruitless pains to mend and remedy remote effects; let the soul be erect, and all things will go well. You think me the child of my circumstances: I make my circumstances. Let any thought or motive of mine be different from that they are, the difference will transform my condition and economy. I-this thought which is called I-is the mould into which the world is poured like melted wa.~. The mould is invisible, but the world betrays the shape of the mould. You call it the power of circumstance, but it is the power of me. Am I in harmony w~th myself ( my position will seem to you just and commanrling. Am I vicious and insane? my fortunes will seem to you Dbscure and descending. As I am, so shall I associate, anti ..;0 shall I act; Cresar's history will paint out Cresar. Jf''5US acted so, because he thought so. I do not wish to ~verlook or to gainsay any reality; I say I make my circumstance· but if you ask me, 'Vhence am I? I feel like other men my -:clation to that Fact which cannot be spoken, or defined, "or even thought, but which exists, and will exist. The Transcendentalist adopts the whole connection of spiritual doctrine. He believes in rni.racle, in the perpetual openness of the human mind to new influx of light and power; he believes in inspiration, and in ecstasy. He wishes that the spiritual principle should be suffered to demonstrate itself to the end, in all possible applications to the state of man, without the admission of anything unspiritual: that is, anything positive, dogmatic, personal. Thus the spiritual measure of inspiration is the depth of the thought, and never, who said it? And sc

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91 he resists all attempts to palm other rules and measures on the spirit than its own. In action he easily incurs the charge of anti-nomianism by his avowal that he, who has the Law-giver, may with safety not only neglect, but even contravene every written command... ment. In the play of Othello, the expiring Desdemona absolves her husband of the murder, to her attendant Emilia. After... wards, when Emilia charges him with the crime, Othello ex.. claims, .-. .... "

tcYou heard her say herself it was not I." c

Emilia replies,

c:-'

"The more angel she, and thou the blacker devil."

Of this fine incident, Jacobi, the Transcendental moralist. makes use, with other parallel instances, in his reply to Fichte" Jacobi, refusing all measure of right and wrong except the d~terminations of the private spirit, remarks that there is no crime but :q.as sometimes been a virtue . "1," he says, "am that atheist, that godless person who, in opposition to an imaginary doctrine of calculation, would lie as the dying Desdemona lied; would lie and deceive, as Pylades when he personated Orestes; would assassinate like Timoleon; would perjure myself like Epaminondas and John de Witt; I would resolve on suicide like Cato; 1 would commit sacrilege with David; yea, and pluck ears of corn on the Sabbath, for no other reason than that I was fainting for lack of food. For I have assurance in myself that in pardoning these faults according to the letter, man exerts the sovereign right which the majesty of his being confers on him; he sets the seal of his divine nature to the grace he

accords." In like manner, if there is anything grand and daring in human thought or virtue, any reliance 011 the vast, the unknown; any presentiment, any extravagance of faith, the spiritualist adopts it as most in nature. The oriental mind has always tended to this largeness. Buddhism is an expression of it. The Buddhist,

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who tha.nks no man, who says, "Do not flatter your benefactors," but who, in his conviction that every good deed can by no possibility escape its reward, will not deceive the benefactor by pretending that he has done more than he should, is a Tran.. icendentalist. · You will see by this sketch that there is no such thing as a Transcendental party; that there is no pure Transcendentalist; that we know of none but prophets and heralds of such a philosophy; that all who by strong bias of nature have leaned t9 the spiritual side in doctrine, have stopped short of their goal. We have had nlany harbingers and forerunners; but of a purely spiritual life, history has afforded no example. I mean we have yet no man who has leaned entirely on his character, and eaten angels' food; \\'"ho, trusting to his sentiments, found life made of miracles; who:, working for universal aims, found himself fed, he knew not how; clothed, sheltered, and weaponed, he knew not how, and yet it was done by his own bands. Only in the instinct of the lower animals we find the suggestion of the methods of it, and something higher than our understanding. The. squirrel hoards nuts and the bee gathers honey, without knowing what they do, and they are thus provided for without selfishness or disgrace. Shall we say then that Transcendentalism is the Saturnalia or excess of Faith; the presentiment of a faith proper to man in his integrity, excessive only when his imperfect obedience hinders the satisfaction of his wish? Nature is transcendental, exists primarily, necessarily, ever works and advances, yet takes

no thought for the morrow. :Th1an owns the dignity of the life which throbs around him, in chemistry, and tree, and animal~ and in the involuntary functions of his own body; yet he is balked when he tries to fling himself into this enchanted circle, where all is done without degradation. Yet genius and virtue predict in man the same absence of private ends and of can.. descension to circumstances, united with every trait and talent of beauty and power. This way of thinking, falling on Roman times, made Stoic philosophers; falling on despotic times, made patriot Catos and

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Bruttlses; falling on superstitious times, made prophets and apostles; on popish times, made protestants and ascetic monks, preachers of Faith against the preachers of Works; on prelatical times, made Puritans and Quakers; and falling on Unitarian and commercial times, makes the peculiar shades of Idealism which we know. It is well known to most of my audience that the Idealism of the present day acquired the name of Transcendental from the use of that term by Immanuel Kant, of Konigsberg, who replied to the skeptical philosophy of Locke, which insisted that there was nothing in the intellect which was not previously in the experience of the senses, by showing that there was a very important class of ideas or imperative forms, which did not come by experience, but through which experience was acquired; that these were intuitions of the mind itself; and he denominated them Transcendental forms. The extraordinary profoundness and precision of that nlan's thinking have given vogue to his nomenclature, in Europe and America, to that extent that whatever belongs to the class of intuitive thought is popularly called at the present day Transcendental. Although, as we have said, there is no pure Transcendentalist, yet the tendency to respect the intuitions and to give them, at least in our creed, all authority over our experience, has deeply colored the conversation and poetry of the present day; and the history of genius and of religion in these times, though impure, and as yet not incarnated in any powerful individual, ·will be the history of this tendency. It is a sign of our times, conspicuous to the coarsest observer, that many intelligent and religious persons withdraw themselves from the common labors and competitions of the market and the caucus, and betake themselves to a certain solitary and critical way of living, from which no solid fruit has yet appeared to justify their separation. They hold themselves aloof: they feel the disproportion between their faculties and the work offered them, and they prefer to ramble in the country and perish of ennui, to the degradation of such charities and such ambitions as the city can propose to them. They are striking work1 and

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crying out for somewhat worthy to do! What they do is done only because they are overpowered by the humanities that speak IDn all sides; and they consent to such labor as is open to them, , though to their lofty dream the writing of lliads or Hamlets, or the building of cities or empires seems drudgery_ Now everyone must do after his kind, be he asp or angel, and these must. The question which a wise man and a student of modern history will ask, is, what that kind is? And truly, as in ecclesiastical history we take so much pains to know what the Gnostics, what the Essenes, what the Manichees, and what the Reformers believed, it would not misbecome us to inquire neal·er home, what these companions and contemporaries of ours think and do, at least so far as these thoughts and actions appear to be not accidental and personal, but common to many, and the inevitable flower of the Tree of Time. Our American literature and spiritual history are, we confess in the optative mood; but whoso knows these seething brains, these admirable radicals, these unsocial worshippers, these talkers who talk the sun and moon away, will believe that this heresy cannot pass away without leaving its mark. I They are lonely; the spirit of their writing and conversation is lonely; they repel influences; they shun general society; they incline to shut themselves in their chamber in the house, to live in the country rather than in the (own, and to find their tasks and amusements in solitude. Society, to be sure, does not like this very well; it saith, \Vhoso goes to walk. alone, accuses the whole world; he declares all to be unfit to be his companions;· , it is very uncivil, nay, insulting; Society will retaliate. Meant time, this retirement does not proceed from any whim. on the part of these separators; but if anyone will take pains to talk with them, he will find that this part is chosen both from temperament and from principle; with some unwillingness too, and as a choice of the less of two evils; for these persons are not by nature melancholy, sour, and unsocial-they are not stockish or brute-but joyous, susceptible, affectionate; they have even more than others a great wish to be loved. Like the young Mozart, they are rather ready to cry ten times a day, "But are .... I

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you sure you love me?" Nay, if they tell you their whole thought, they will own that love seems to them the last and highest gift of nature; that there are persons whom in their hearts they daily thank for existing-persons whose faces are perhaps unknown to them, but whose fame 3.nQ spirit have penetrated their soli· tude-and for whose saF c they wish to exist. To behold the beauty of another cha:'acter, which inspires a new interest. in our own; to l]ehold the beauty lodged in a human being, Nith such vivacity of apprehension that I am instantly lorcer. nome tc inquire if I am not deformity itself; to behold in another the expression of a .Love so high that it assures itseli-assp -"es ;tself also to me against every possible casualty except ny unworthiness; these are degrees on the scale of human happi. ness to which they have ascended; and it is a fidelitjl to this sentiment which has made common association distasteful to them. They wish a just and even fellowship, or none. They can'" not gossip with you, and they do not wish, as they are sincer6 alld religious, to gratify any mere curiosity which you may enter' tain. Like fairies, they do not wish to be spoken of. LoV'e me, they say, but do not ask who is my cousin and my uncle. If you de not i":.eed tc near my thought, because you can read it in my face al1d behavior, then I will tell it you from sunrise to sunset, If you cannot divine it, you would not understand what I say" J. will not molest myself for you. I do not wish to be profaned. And yet, it seems as if this loneliness, and not this love, would prevail in their circumstances, because of the extravagant demand they make on human nature. That, indeed, constitutes a new feature in their portrait, that they are the most exacting and extortionate critics. Their quarrel with every man they meet is not with his kind, but with his degree. There is not enough of him-that is the only fault. They prolong their privilege of childhood in this wise; of doing nothing, but making immense demands on all the gladiators in the lists of action and fame They make us feel the strange disappointment which overcast~ every human youth. So many promising youths, and never a finished man! The profound nature will have a savage rudeness; the delicate one will be shallow, or the victim of sensibility; fue I

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richly accomplished will have some capital absurdity; and so every piece bas a crack. 'T is strange, but this masterpiece is the result of such an extreme delicacy that the most unobserved flaw in the boy will neutralize the most aspiring genius, and spoil the work. Talk with a seaman of the hazards to life in his profession and he will ask you, 'Where are the old sailors? Do you not see that all are young men?' And we, on this sea of human thought, in like manner inquire, Where are the old idealists? where are they who represented to the last generation that extravagant hope which a few happy aspirants suggest to ours? In looking at the class of counsel, and power, and wealth, and at the matronage of the land, amidst all the prudence and all the triviality, one asks, Where are they who represented genius, virtue, the invisible and heavenly wOLld, to these? Are they dead-taken in early ripeness to the gods-as ancient wis ... dam foretold their fate? Or did the high idea die out of them, and leave their unperfumed body as its tomb and tablet, an . . Douncing to all that the celestial inhabitant, who once gave them beauty, had departed? \ViU it be better with the new generation? We easily predict a fair future to each new candidate who enters the lists, but we are frivolous and volatile, and by low aims and ill example do what we can to defeat this hope. Then these youths bring us a rough but effectual aid. By their unconcealed dissatisfaction they expose our poverty and the insignificance of man to man. A man is a poor limitary benefactor. He ought to be a shower of benefits-a great influence, which should never let his brother go, but should refresh old merits -continually with new ones; so that though absent he should never be out of my mind, his name never far from my lips; but if the earth should open at my side, or my last hour were come, his name should be the prayer I should utter to the Universe. But in our experience, man is cheap and friendship wants its deep sense. \\; e affect to dwell with our friends in their absence, but we do not; when deed, word, or letter comes not, they let us go . These exacting children advertise us of our wants. There is no compliment, no smooth speech with them; they pay you only this one compliment, of insatiable expectation; they aspire,

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they severely exact, and if they only stand fast in this watch.. tO~/er, and persist in demanding unto the end, and without end, then are they terrible friends , whereof poet and priest cannot choose but stand in awe; and what if they eat clouds, and drink wind, they have not been without service to the race of man. \Vith this passion for what is great and extraordinary, it cannot be wondered at that they are repelled by vulgarity and frivoli ty in people. They say to thelnselves, It is better to be alone than in bad company. And it is really a wish to be met-the wish to find society for their hope and religion-which prompts them to shun what is called society. They feel that they are never so fit for friendship as ,vhen they have quitted mankind and taken themselves to friend. A picture, a book, a favorite spot in the hills or the woods which they can people with the fair and worthy creation of the fancy, can give them often forms so vivid that these for the time shall seem real, and society the illusion. But their solitary and fastidious manners not only withdraw them from the conversation, but from the labors of the world; they are not good citizens, not good members of society; unwill.. ingly they bear their part of the public and private burdens; they do not willingly share in the public charities, in the public religious rites, in the enterprises of education, of missions foreign and domestic, in the abolition of the slave-trade, or in the tern... perance society. They do not even like to vote. The philan. thropists inquire whether Transcendentalism does not mean sloth: they had as lief hear that their friend is dead, as that he is a Transcendentalist; for then is he paralyzed, and can never do anything for humanity. What right, cries the good world, has the man of genius to retreat from work, and indulge himself? The popular literary creed seems to be, 'I am a sublime genius; I ought not therefore to labor.' But genius is the power to labor better and more availably. Deserve thy genius: exalt it . The good, the illuminated, sit apart from the rest, censuring their dulness and vices, as if they thought that by sitting very grand in their chairs, the very brokers, attorneys, and congress~' men would see the error of their ways, and flock to them. Bu--

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the good and wise must learn to act, and carry salvation to the combatants and demagogues in the dusty arena below. On the part of these children it is replied that life and their faculty seem to them gifts too rich to be squandered on such trifles as you propose to them. What you call your fundamental institutions, your great and holy causes, seem to them great abuses, and, when nearly seen, paltry matters. Each 'cause' as it is called-say Abolition, Temperance, say Calvinism, or Unitarianism-becomes speedily a little shop, where the article, let it have been at first never so subtle and ethereal, is now made up into portable and convenient cakes, and retailed in small quantities to suit purchasers. You make very free use of these words 'great' and 'holy,' but few things appear to them such .. Few persons have any magnificence of nature to inspire enthusiasm, and the philanthropies and charities have a certain air of quackery. As to the general course of living, and the daily employments of men, they cannot see much virtue in these, since they are parts of this vicious circle; and as no great ends are answered by the men, there is nothing noble in the arts by which they are maintained. Nay, they have made the experiment and found that from the liberal professions to the coarsest manual labor, and from the courtesies of the academy and the college to the conventions of the cotillon-room and the morning call, there is a spirit of cowardly compromise and seeming which intimates a frightful skepticism, a life without love, and an activity without an aim. Unless the action is necessary, unless it is adequate, I do not wish to perform it. I do not wish to do one thing but once. I do not love routine. Once possessed of the principle, it is equally easy to make four or forty thousand applications of it. A great man will be content to have indicated in any the slightest manner his perception of the reigning Idea of his time, and will leave to those who like it the mUltiplication of examples. When he bas bit the white, the rest may shatter the target. Every thing admonishes us how needlessly long life is. Every moment of a hero so raises and cheers us that a twelvemonth is an age. All that the brave Xanthus brings home from his wars is the

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recollection that at the storming of Samos, "in the heat of the battle, Pericles sn1i1ed on me, and passed on to another detachment." It is the quality of the n1oment, not the number of days, of events, or of actors, but imports. New, we confess, and by no means happy, is our condition: if you want the aid of our labor, we ourselves stand in greater want of the labor. We are miserable with inaction. We perish of rest and rust: but we do not like your work. 'Then,' says the world, 'show me your own.' 'We have none.' 'What will you do, then?' cries the world. 'We will wait.' 'How long?' 'Until the Universe beckons and calls us to work.' 'But whilst you wait, you grow old and useless.' 'Be it so: I can sit in a corner and perish (as you call it), but I will not move until I have the highest command. If no call should come for years, for centuries, then I know that the want of the Universe is the attestation of faith by my abstinence. Your virtuous projects, so called, do not cheer me. I know that which shall come will cheer me. If I cannot work, at least I need not lie. All that is clearly due today is not to lie. In other places other men have encountered sharp trials, and have behaved themselves well. The martyrs were sawn asunder, or hung alive on meat-hooks. Cannot we screw our courage to patience and truth, and without complaint, or even with good-humor, a'V',ait our turn of action in the Infinite Counsels?' But to conle a little closer to the secret of these persons, we must say that to them it seems a very easy matter to answer the objections of the man of the world, but not so easy to dis .. pose of the doubts and objections that occur to themselves. They are exercised in their own spirit with queries which acquaint them with aU adversity, and with the trials of the bravest heroes. When I asked them concerning their private experience, they answered someV\That in this wise: It is not to be denied that there must be some wide difference between my faith and other faith ~ and mine is a cert.ain brief experience, which surprised

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me in the highway or in the market, in some place, at some time-whether in the body or out of the body. God knowethand made me aware that I had played the fool wi~h fools all this time, but that law existed for me and for all; that to me belonged trust, a child's trust and obedience, and the worship of ideas, and I should never be fool more. Well, in the space of an hour probably, I was let down from this height; I was at myoId tricks, the selfish member of a selfish society. My life is superficial, takes no root in the deep world; I ask, When shall I die and be relieved of the responsibility of seeing a Universe I do not use? I wish to exchange this flash-of-lightning faith for continuous daylight, this fever-glow for a benign climate. These two states of thought diverge every moment, and stand in wild contrast. To him who looks at his life from these moments of illumination, it will seem that he skulks and plays a mean, shiftless and subaltern part in the world. That is to be done which he has not skill to do, or to be said which others can say better, and he lies by, or occupies his hands with some plaything, until his hour comes again. l\1uch of our reading, much of our labor, seems mere waiting; it was not that we were born for. Any other could do it as well or better. So little , skill enters into these works, so little do they mix with the divine life, that it really signifies little what we do, whether we tum a grindstone, or ride, or run, or make fortunes, or govern the state. The worst feature of this double consciousness is, that the two lives, of the understanding and of the soul, which we lead, really show very little relation to each other; never meet and measure each other: one prevails now, all buzz and din; and the other prevails then, all infinitude and paradise; and, with the progress of life, the two discover no greater disposition to reconcile themselves. Yet, what is my faith? What am I? ,\Vhat but a thought of serenity and independence, an abode in the deep blue sky? Presently the clouds shut down again; yet we retain the belief that this pretty web we weave will at last be overshot and reticulated with veins of the blue, and that the moments will characterize the days. Patience, then, is for us, is it not? Patience, and still patience. ,\Vhen we pass,

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as presently we shall, into some new infinitude, out of this Iceland of negations, it will please us to reflect that though we had few virtues or consolations, we bore with our indigence, nor once strove to repair it with hypocrisy or false heat of any kind. But this class are not sufficiently characterized if we omit to add that they are lovers and worshippers of Beauty. In the eternal trinity of Truth, Goodness, and Beauty, each in its perfection including the three, they prefer to make Beauty the sign and head. Something of the same taste is observable in all the moral movelnents of the time, in the religious and benevolent enterprises. They have a liberal, even an resthetic spirit. A reference to Beauty in action sounds, to be sure, a little hollow and ridiculous in the ears of the old church. In politics, it has often sufficed, when they treated of justice, if they kept the bounds of selfish calculation. If they granted restitution, it was prudence which granted it. But the justice which is now claimed for the black, and the pauper, and the drunkard, is for Beautyis for a necessity to the soul of the agent, not of the beneficiary. I say this is the tendency, not yet the realization. Our virtue totters and trips, does not yet walk firmly. Its representatives are austere; they preach and denounce; their rectitude is not yet a grace. They are still liable to that slight taint of burlesque which in our strange world attaches to the zealot. A saint should be as dear as the apple of the eye. Yet we are tempted to smile, and we flee from the working to the speculative reformer, to escape that same slight ridicule. Alas for these days of derision and criticism! We call the Beautiful the highest, because it appears to us the golden mean, escaping the dowdiness of the good and the heartlessness of the true. They are lovers of nature also, and find an indemnity in the inviolable order of the world for the violated order and grace of man . There is, no doubt, a great deal of well-founded objection to be spoken or felt against the sayings and doings of this class, some of whose traits we have selected; 110 doubt they will lay themselves open to criticism and to lampoons, and as ridiculous stories will be to be told of them as of any . There will be cant and pretension; there will be subtilty and moonshine. These "

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l>ersons are of unequal strength, and do not all prosper. They complain that everything around them must be denied; and if feeble, it takes all their strength to deny, before they can begin to lead their own life. Grave seniors insist on their respect to this institution and that usage; to an obsolete history; to '",orne vocation, or college, or etiquette, or beneficiary, or charity, or morning or evening call, which they resist as what does not concern them. But it costs such sleepless nights, alienations and misgivings-they have so many moods about it; these old guardians never change their minds; they have but one mood on the subject, namely, that Antony is very perverse--that it is quite as much as Antony can do to assert his rights, abstain from what he thinks foolish, and keep his temper. He cannot help the reaction of this injustice in his own mind. He is braced-up and stilted; all freedom and flowing genius, all sallies of wit and frolic nature are quite out of the question; it is well if he can keep from lying, injustice, and suicide. This is no time for gaiety and grace. His strength and spirits are wasted in rejection . But the strong spirits overpower those around them without effort. Their thought and emotion comes in like a flood, quite withdraws them from all notice of these carping critics; they surrender thrmselves with glad heart to the heavenly guide, and only by implication reject the clamorous Don,sense of the hour. Grave seniors talk to the deaf--church and old book mumble and ritualize to an unheeding, preoccupied and advancing mind, and thus they by happiness of greater momentum lose no time, but take the right road at first. But all these of whom I speak are not proficients; they are novices; they only show the road in which man should travel, when the soul has greater health and prowess. Yet let them feel the dignity of their charge, and deserve a larger power. Their heart is the ark in which the fire is concealed which shall burn in the broader and universal flame. Let them obey the Genius then most when his impulse is wildest; then most when" he seems to lead to uninhabitable deserts of thought and life; for the path which the hero travels alone is the highway of health and benefit to mankind. \\tl'hat is the privilege and nobility of

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our nature but its persistency, through its power to attach itself to what is permanent? Society also has its duties in reference to this class, and must behold them with what charity it can. Possibly some benefit may yet accrue from them to the state. In our Mechanics' Fair, there must be not only bridges, ploughs, carpenters' planes, and baking troughs, but also some few finer instruments-rain.. gauges, thermometers, and telescopes; and in society, besides farmers, sailors, and weayers, there must be a few persons of purer fire kept specially as gauges and meters of charaowdering-tubs. Worst, when this sensualisln intrudes into the education of young women, and withers the hope and affection of human nature by teaching that marriage signifies nothing but a housewife's thrift, and that wOlnan's life has no other aira. But this dream of love, though beautiful, is only one scene in our play. In the procession of the soul from within outward, it enlarges its circles ever, like the pebble thrown into the pond, or the light proceeding from an orb. The rays of the soul alight first on things 'nearest, on every utensil and toy, on nurses and domestics, on the bouse and yard and passengers, on the circle of household acquaintance, on politics and geography and his . . tory. But things are ever grouping thenlselves according to higher or more interior laws. Neighborhood, size, numbers, habits, persons, lose by degrees their power over us. Cause and effect, real , affinities, the longing for harmony between the soul and the " circumstances, the progressive, idealizing instinct, predominate later, and the step backward from the higher to the lower relations is impossible. Thus even love, which is the deification of persons, must become more impersonal every day. Of this at first it gives no hint. Little think the youth and maiden who are glancing at each other across crowded rooms with eyes so full of mutual intelligence, of the precious fruit long hereafter to proceed from this new, quite external stimulus. The work of vegetation begins first in the irritability of the bark and leaf-buds. From exchanging glances, they advance to acts of courtesy, of gallantry, then to fiery passion, to plighting troth and marriage. Passion beholds its object as a perfect unit. The soul is wholly embodied, and the body is wholly ensouled:"

"Her pure and eloquent blood Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought, That one might almost say her body thought." Romeo, if dead, should be cut up into little stars to make the heavens fine. Life, with this pair, has no other aim, asks no more, than Juliet-than Romeo. Night, day, studies, talents, king-

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dams, 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. \V'hen alone, they solace themselves with the ren1embered image of the other. Does that other see the same star, the same melting cloud, read the same book, feel the same emotion, that now delights me? They try and ,veigh their affection, and adding up costly advan" tages, friends, opportunities, properties, exult in discovering that willingly, joyfully, they would give all as a ransom for the beau... tiful, the beloved head, not one hair of which shall be harmed. But the lot of humanity is on these children. Danger, sorrow and pain arrive to them as to all. Love prays. It makes covenants with Eternal Power in behalf of this dear mate. The union which is thus effected and which adds a new value to every atom in nature-for it transmutes every thread throughout the whole web of relation into a golden ray, and bathes the soul in a ne,v and sweeter element-is yet a temporary state. Not always can flowers, pearls, poetry, protestations, nor even home in another heart, content the awful soul that dwells in clay. It arouses itself at last from these endearments, as toys, and puts on the harness and aspires to vast and universal aims. The soul which is in the soul of each, craving a perfect beatitude, detects incongruities, defects and disproportion in the behavior of the other. Hence arise sur.. prise, expostulation and pain. Yet that which drew them to each other was signs of loveliness, signs of virtue; and these virtues are there, however eclipsed. They appear and reappear and can.. tinue to attract; but the regard changes, quits the sign and attaches to the substance. This repairs the wounded affection. Meantime, as life wears on, it proves a game of permutation and combiQation of all possible positions of the parties, to employ the resources of each and acquaint each with the strength and weakness of the other. ~'or 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 cun" ningly wrought into the texture of man, of woman:"The person love does to us fit, ~ike manna, has the taste of all in it."

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The world rolls; the circumstances vary every hour. The angels that inhabit this temple of the body appear at the windows, and the gnomes and vices also. By all the virtues they are united. If there be virtue, all the vices are known as such; they confess and flee. Their once flaming regard is sobered by time in either breast, and losing in violence what it gains in extent, it becomes a thorough good understanding. They resign each other without complaint to the good offices which man and woman are severally appointed to discharge in time, and exchange the passion which once could not lose sight of its object, for a cheerful disengaged furtherance, whether present or absent, of each other's designs. At last they discover that all which at first drew them together-those once sacred features, that magical play of charms-was deciduous, had a prospective end, like the scaffolding by which the house was built; and the purification of the intellect and the heart from year to year is the real marriage, foreseen and prepared from the first, and wholly above their consciousness. Looking at these aims with which two persons, a man and a woman, so variously and correlatively gifted, are shut up in one house to spend in the nuptial society forty or fifty years, I do not wonder at the emphasis with which the heart prophesies this crisis from early infancy, at the profuse beauty with which the instincts deck the nuptial bower, and nature and intellect and art emulate each other in the gifts and the melody they bring to the epithalamium. Iti Thus are we put in training for a love which knows not sex, nor person, nor partiality, but which seeks virtue and wisdom every. . where, to the end of increasing virtue and wisdom. We are by nature observers, and thereby learners. That is our permanent state. But we are often made to feel that our affections are but tents of a night. Though slowly and with pain, the objects of the affections change, as the objects of thought do. There are moments when the affections rule and absorb the man and make his bappiness dependent on a person or persons. But in health the mind is presently seen again-its overarching vault, bright with galaxies of immutable lights, and the warm loves and fears, that ~wept over us as clouds, must lose their finite character a:p.d blend

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with God, to attain their own perfection. But we need not feat that we can lose any thing by the progress of the souL The soul may be trusted to the end. That which is so beautiful and attractive as these relations, must be succeeded and supplanted ouly by what is more beautiful, and so on for ever.

FRIENDSHIP A ruddy drop of manly blood The surging sea outweighs; The world uncertain comes and goes, The lover rooted stays. 1 fancied he "ras fled, And, after many a year, 1}lowed unexhausted kindliness Like daily sunrise there. My careful heart was free againo friend, my bosom said, Through thee alone the sky is arched, Through thee the rose is red, All things through thee take nobler form And look beyond the earth, The mill-round of our fate appears A sun-path in thy worth. Me too thy nobleness has taught To master my despair; The fountains of my hidden life Are through thy friendship fair.

a great deal more kindness than is ever spoken. Maugre all the selfishness that chills like east winds the world, the whole human family is bathed with an element of love like a fine ether. How many persons we meet in houses, whom we scarcely speak to, whom yet we honor, and who honor us! How many we see in the street, or sit with in church, whom, though silently, we warmly rejoice to be with! Read the language of these wandering eye-beams. The heart knoweth . The effect of the indulgence of this human affection is a certain cordial exhilaration. In poetry and in common speech the emotions of benevolence and complacency which are felt towards .,thers are likened to the material effects of fire; so swift, or much • lore swift, more active, more cheering, are these fine inward

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irradiations. From the highest degree of passionate love to the lowest degree of good-will, they make the sweetness of life. Our intellectual and active powers increase with our affection. The scholar sits down to write, and all his years of meditation do not furnish him with one good thought or happy expression; but it is necessary to write a letter to a friend-and forthwith troops of gentle thQ. 19hts invest themselves, on every hand, with chosen words. See, in any house where virtue and self-respect abide, the palpitation which the approach of a stranger causes. A commended stranger is expected and announced, and an uneasi,,' ness betwixt pleasure and pain invades all the hearts of a house.. hold. His arrival almost brings fear to the good hearts that would welcome him. The house is dusted, all things fiy into their places, the old coat is exchanged for the new, and they must get up a dinner if they can. Of a commended stranger, only the good report is told by others, only the good and new is heard by us. He stands to us for humanity. He is what we wish. Having imagined and invested hinl, we ask how we should stand related in conversation and action with such a man, and are uneasy with fear. The same idea exalts conversation with him. We talk better than we are wont. We have the nimblest fancy, a richer memory, anc our dumb devil has taken leave for the time. For long hours we can continue a series of sincere, graceful, rich communications, drawn from the oldest, secretest experience, so that they who sit by, of our own kinsfolk and acquaintance, shall feel a lively surprise at our unusual powers. But as soon as the stranger begins tC' intrude his partialities, his definitions, his defects into the con.. versation, it is all over. He has heard the first, the last and best he will ever hear from us. He is no stranger now. Vulgarity, igno· rance, misapprehension are old acquaintances. Now, when h~ comes, he n1ay get the order, the dress and the dinner-but the throbbing of the heart and the communications of the soul, no more. What is so pleasant as these jets of affection which make a young world for me again? What 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 tbJi

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flifted and the true! The moment we indulge our affections, the earth is metamorphosed; there is no winter and no night; all tragedies, all ennuis vanish-all duties even; nothing fills the proceeding eternity but the forms all radiant of beloved persons. Let the soul be assured that son1ewhere in the universe it should rejoin its friend, and it would be content and cheerful alone for a thousand years. I awoke this morning with devout thanksgiving for my friends, the old and the new. Shall I not call God the Beautiful, who daily showeth himself so to me in his gifts? I chide society, I embrace solitude, and yet I am not so ungrateful as not to see the wise, the lovely and the noble-minded, as from time to time they pass my gate. Who hears me, who understands me, becomes mine-a possession for all time. Nor is 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 sub . . stantiate themselves, we shall by and by stand in a new world of Dur own creation, and no longer strangers and pilgrims in a traditionary globe. My friends have come to me unsought. The great ~God gave them to me. By oldest right, by the divine affinity of -virtue with itself, I find them, or rather not I, but the Deity in me and in them derides and cancels the thick walls of individual character, relation, age, sex, circumstance, at which he usually connives, and now makes many one. High thanks lowe you, excellent lovers, who carry out the world for me to new and nobIs depths, and enlarge the meaning of all my thoughts. These are new poetry of the first Bard-poetry without stop-hymn, ode and epic, poetry still flowing, Apollo and the lVluses 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 we hold 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 Vlomen, wherever I may be. I confess to an extreme tenderness of nature on this point. It is almost dangerous to me to "crush the sweet poison of misused wine" of the affections. A new person is to me a great event and

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hinders me from sleep. I have often had fine fancies about per.. sons which have given me delicious hours; but the joy ends in the day; it yields no fruit. Thought is not born of it; my action is very little modified. I must feel pride in my friend's accomplishments as if they were mine, and a property in his virtues. I feel as warmly when he is praised, as the lover when he hears applause of his engaged maiden. We over-estimate the conscience of our friend. His goodness seems better than our goodness, his nature finer, his temptations less. Every thing that is bis-his name, his form, his dress, books and instruments-fancy enhances. Our own thought sounds new and larger from his mouth. Yet the systole and diastole of the heart are not without their analogy in the ebb and flow of love. Friendship, like the immortality of the soul, is too good to be believed. The lover, beholding his maiden, half knows that she is not verily that which he wor~ ships; and in the golden hour of friendship we are surprised with shades of suspicion and unbelief. We doubt that we bestow all our hero the virtues in which he shines, and afterwards worship the form to which we have ascribed this divine inhabitation. In strictness, the soul does not respect men as it respects itself.. In strict science all persons underlie the same condition of an infinite remoteness. Shall we fear to cool our love by mining for the metaphysical foundation of this Elysian temple? Shall I not be as real as the things I see? If I am, I shall not fear to know them for what they are. Their essence is not less beautiful than their appearance, though it needs finer organs for its apprehension. The root of the plant is not unsightly to science, though for chaplets and festoons we cut the stem short. And I must hazard the production of the bald fact amidst these pleasing reveries) though it should prove an Egyptian skull at our banquet. A man who stands united with his thought conceives magnificently of himself. He is conscious of a universal success, even though bought by uniform particular failures. No advantages, no pow.., ers, no gold or force, can be any match for him. I cannot choose but rely on my own poverty more than on your wealth. I cannot make your consciousness tantamount to mine. Only the star dazzles; the planet has a faint, moonlike ray. I hear what you

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say of the admirable parts and tried temper of the party you

praise, but I see weli that, for all his purple cloaks, I shall not like him, unle3s he is at least a poor Greek like me. I cannot deny it, 0 friend, that the vast shadow of the Phenomenal includes thee also in its pied and painted immensity-thee also, compared '\vith whom all else is shadow. Thou art not Being, as Truth is, as Justice is-thou art not my soul, but a picture _and effigy of that. Thou hast come to me lately, and already thou art seizing thy hat and cloak. Is it not that the soul puts forth friends as the tree puts forth leaves, and presently, by the germination of new buds, ex. . trudes the old leaf? The law of nature is alternation for evermore Each electrical state superinduces the opposite. The soul en . . virons itself with friends that it may enter into a grander self. acquaintance or solitude; and it goes alone for a season that it may exalt its conversation or society. This method betrays itself along the whole history of our personal relations. The instinct of affection revives the hope of union with our mates, and the returning sense of insulation recalls us from the chase. Thus every man passes his life in the search after friendship, and if he should record his true sentiment, he might write a letter like this to each new candidate for his love:DEAR FRIEND,

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

never. Yet these uneasy pleasures and fine pains are for curiosity and aot for life. They are not to be indulged. This is to weave cobweb, and not cloth. Our friendships hurry to short and poor can.. clusions, because we have made them a texture of wine and dreams, instead of the tough fibre of the human heart. The laws ot friendship are austere and eternal, of one web with the laws of

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nature and of morals. But we have aimed at a swift and petty benefit, to suck a sudden sweetness. \Ve snatch at the slowest fruit in the whole garden of God, which many summers and many winters must ripen. We seek our friend not sacredly, but with an adulterate passion which would appropriate him to ourselves. In vain. We are armed all over with subtle antagonisms, which, as soon as we meet, begin to play, and translate all poetry into stale prose. Almost all people descend to meet. All association must be a compromise, and, what is worst, the very flower and aroma of the flo~ler of each of the beautiful natures disappears as they approach each other. What a perpetual disappointment 25 actuaJ society, even of the virtuous and gifted! After interviews haVE; been compassed with long foresight we must be tormented pres.. ently by baffled blows, by sudden, unseasonable apathies, by epilepsies of wit and of animal spirits, in the heyday of friendship and thought. Our faculties do not play us true, and both parties are relieved by solitude. I ought to be equal to every relation. It makes no difference how many friends I have and what content I can find in con.. versing with each, if there be one to whom I am not equaL If I have shrunk unequal from one contest, the joy I find in all the rest becomes mean and cowardly_ I should hate myself, if thel). I made my other friends my asylum:"The valiant warrior famoused for fight, After a hundred victories, once foiled, Is from the book of honor razed quite And all the rest forgot for which he toiled,"

:.

Our impatience is thus sharply rebuked. Bashfulness and apathy are a tough husk in which a delicate organization is pro., tected from premature ripening. It would be lost if it knew itself before any of the best souls were yet ripe enough to know ana own it. Respect the naturlangsamkeit which hardens the ruby in a million years, and works in duration in which Alps and Ande~ come and go as rainbows. The good spirit of our life has no heaven which is the price of rashness. Love, which is the essence of God. \s not for levity, but for the total worth of man. Let us not have

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this childish luxury in our regards, but the austerest worth; let ns approach our friend with an audacious trust in the truth of his heart, in the breadth, impossible to be overturned, of his foundations. The attractions of this subject are not to be resisted, and I leave, for the time, all account of subordinate social benefit, to speak of that select and sacred relation which is a kind of absolute, and which even leaves the language of love suspicious and common, so much is this purer, and nothing is so nluch divine. I do not wish to treat friendships daintily, but with roughest courage. When they are real, they are not glass threads or frostwork, but the solidest thing we know. Far now, after so many ages of experience, what do we know of nature or of ourselves? Not one step has man taken toward the solution of the problem of his destiny. In one condemnation of folly stand the whole universe of men. But the sweet sincerity of joy and peace which I draw from this alliance with my brother's soul is the nut itself whereof all nature and all thought is but the husk and shell. Happy is the house that shelters a friend I It might well be built, like a festal bower or arch, to entertain him a single day. Happier, if he know the solemnity of that relation and honor its law! He who offers himself a candidate for that covenant comes up, like an Olympian, to the great games where the first-born of the world are the competitors. He proposes himself for contests where Time, Want, Danger, are in the lists, and he alone is victor who has trutr. enough in his constitution to preserve the delicacy of his beauty from the wear and tear of all these. The gifts of fortune may be present or absent, but all the speed in that contest depends on intrinsic nobleness and the contempt of trifles. There are two elements that go to the composition of friendship, each so sovereign that I can detect no superiority in either, no reason why either should be first named. One is truth. A friend is a person with whom I may be sincere. Before him I may think aloud. I am arrived at last in the presence of a man so real and equal that I may drop even those undermost garments of dissimulation, courtesy, and second thought, which men never put off, and may deal with him with the simplicity and wholeness with which one

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chemical atom meets another . Sincerity is the luxury allowed, like diadems and authority, only to the highest rank; that being per... mitted to speak truth, as having none above it to court or conform unto. Every man alone is sincere. At the entrance of a sec... ond person, hypocrisy begins. We parry and fend the approach of our fellow-man by compliments, by gossip, by amusements, by affairs . We cover up our thought from him under a hundred folds. I knew a man who under a certain religious frenzy cast off this drapery, and omitting all compliment and commonplace, spoke to the conscience of every person he encountered, and that with great insight and beauty. At first he was resisted, and all men agreed he was mad. But persisting-as indeed he could not help doing-for some time in this course, he attained to the advantage of bringing every man of his acquaintance into true relations with him. No man would think of speaking falsely with him, or of putting him off with any chat of markets or reading-rooms. But every man was constrained by so much sincerity to the like plain. dealing, and what love of nature, what poetry, what symbol of truth he had, he did certainly show him. But to most of us society shows not its face and eye, but its side and its back. To stand in true relations with men in a false age is worth a fit of insanity, is it not? We can seldom go erect. Almost every man we meet re .. quires some civility-requires to be humored; he has some fame, some talent, some whim of religion or philanthropy in his head that is not to be questioned, and which spoils all conversation with him. But a friend is a sane man who exercises not my ingenuity, but me. My friend gives me entertainment without requiring any stipulation on my part. A friend therefore is a sort of paradox in nature. I who alone am, I who see nothing in nature whose existence I can affirm with equal evidence to my own, behold now the semblance of my being, in all its height, variety and curiosity, reiterated in a foreign form; so that a friend may well be reckoned the masterpiece of nature. The other elelnent of friendship is tenderness. We are holden tCI men by every sort of tie, by blood, by pride, by fear, by hope, by lucre, by lust, by hate, by admiration, by every circumstance and badge and trifle-but we can scarce believe that so much char

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acter can subsist in another as to draw us by love. Can another be so blessed and we so pure that we can offer him tenderness? When a man becomes dear to me I have touched the goal of fortune. I find '(!ery litt1e written directly to the heart of this matter in books. And yet I have one text which I cannot choose but remember. My author says-"! offer myself faintly and bluntly to those whose I effectually am, and tender myself least to him to whom I am the most devoted." I wish that friendship should have feet, as well as eyes and eloquence. It must plant itself on the ground, before it vaults over the mOOD. I wish it to be a little of a citizen, before it is quite a cherub. \Ve chide the citizen because he makes love a commodity. It is an exchange of gifts, of useful loans ; it is good neighbol hood; it watches with the sick; it holds the pall at the funeral; and quite loses sight of the delicacies and nobility of the relation. Bnt though we cannot find the god under this dis .. guise of a sutler yet on the other hand we cannot forgive the poet if he spins his thread too fine and does not substantiate his romance by the Hlunicipal virtues of justice, punctuality, fidelity a.nd pity. I hate the prostitution of the name of friendship to sig." nify modish and worldly alliances. I much prefer the company of ploughboys and tIn-peddlers to the silken and perfumed amity which celebrates its days of encounter by a frivolous display, by rides in a curricle and dinners at the best taverns. The end of friendship is a comrnerce the most strict and homely that can be joined; more strict tban any of which we have experience. It is ~or aid and comfort through all the relations and passages of life a.nd death. It is fit for .serene days and graceful gifts and country rambles, but also for rough roads and hard fare, shipwreck, poverty and persecution. It :b "eps company with the sallies of the wit and the trances of religion. Vl e are to dignify to each other the daily needs and offices of man's life, and embellish it by courage, wisdom and unity. It should never fall into something usual and settled, but should be alert and inventive and add rhyme and I

reason to what was drudgery.

Friendship may be said to require natures so rare and costly, each so well tempered and so happily adapted, and withal so circurnstanced (for even in that particular, a poet says, love

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23 1 demands that the parties be altogether paired), that its satisfac.. tion can very seldom be assured. It cannot subsist in its ;>erfec. tion, say sonle of those who are learned in this warm lore of the heart, betwixt more than two. I am not quite so strict in my terms> perhaps because I have never known so high a fellowship as others. I please my imagination more with a circle of god-like men and women variously related to each other and between whom subsists a lofty intelligence. But I find this law of one to one peremptory for conversation, which is the practice and c:on.. sumrnation of friendship. Do not mix waters too much. The best mix as ill as good a.nd bad. You shall have very useful and cheer. ing discourse at several tilnes with two several men, but let all three of you come together and you shall not have one new and hearty word. 1''\I\''0 may talk and one may hear, but three canno1' take part in a conversation of the most sincere and searchin~ sort. In good company there is never such discourse between two, across the table, as takes place when you leave them alone. In good company the individuals merge their egotism into a social soul exactly co-extensi ve with the several consciousnesses there present. No partialities of friend to friend, no fondnesses of brother to sister, of wife to husband, are there pertinent, but quite otherwise. Only he may then speak who can sail on the com.. man thought of the party, and 110t poorly lhnited to his own. NoV\" this convention, which good sense demands, destroys the high freedom of great conversation, which requires an absolute running of two souls into one. No two men but being left alone with each other enter into simpler relations. Yet it is affinity that determines which two shall converse. Unrelated men give little joy to each other, will never suspect the latent powers of each. We talk sometimes of a great talent for conversation, as if it were a permanent property in sonle individuals. ConverRation is an evanescent relation-no more. A n1an is reputed to have thought and eloquence; he can.. not, for all that, say a word to his cousin or his uncle. They accuse his silence with a.s much reason as they would blame the insignificance of a dial in the shade. In the sun it will mark the hour A.mong those who enjoy his thought he will regain his tongue.

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Friendship requires that rare mean betwixt likeness and unlikeness that piques each with the presence of power and of con. . sent in the other party. Let me be alone to the end of the world, rather than that my friend should overstep, by a word or a look, his real sympathy. I am equally balked by antagonism and by 'compliance. Let him not cease an instant to be himself. The only joy I have in his being mine, is that the not mine is mine. I hate, where I looked for a manly furtherance or at least a manly resistance, to find a mush of concession. Better be a nettle in the side of your friend than his echo. The condition which high friendship demands is ability to do without it. That high office requires great and sublime parts. There must be very two, before there can be very one. Let it be an alliance of two large, formidable natures, mutually beheld, mutually feared, before yet they recognize the deep identity which, beneath these disparities, unites them. He only is fit for this society who is magnanimous; who is sure that greatness and goodness are always economy; who is not swift to intermeddle with his fortunes. Let him not intermeddle with this. Leave to the diamond its ages to grow, nor expect to accelerate the births of the eternal. Friendship demands a religious treatment. We talk of choosing our friends, but friends are self-elected. Reverence is a great part of it. Treat your friend as a spectacle. Of course he has merits that are not yours, and that you cannot honor if you must needs hold him close to your person. Stand aside; give those merits room; let them mount and expand. Are you the friend of your friend's buttons, or of his thought? To a great heart he will be a stranger in a thousand particulars, that he may come near in the holiest ground. Leave it to girls and boys to regard a friend as property, and to suck a short and all-confounding pleasure, instead of the noblest benefit. Let us buy our entrance to this guild by a long probation. Why should we desecrate noble and beautiful souls by intruding on them? Why insist on rash personal relations with your friend? Why go to his house, or know his mother and brother and sisters( \Vby be visited by him at your own? Are these things material to our covenant? Leave this touching and clawing. Let him be to me a spirit. A message, a thought, a sincerity, a glance from him,

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233 I want, but not news, nor pottage. I can get politics and chat and neighborly conveniences from cheaper companions. Should not the society of my friend be to me poetic, pure, universal and great as nature itself? Ought I to feel that our tie is profane in com. parison with yonder bar of cloud that sleeps on the horizon, or that clump of waving grass that divides the brook? Let us not vilify, but raise it to that standard. That great defying eye, that scornful beauty of his mien and action, do not pique yourself on reducing, but rather fortify and enhance. Worship his superiori. ties; wish him not less by a thought, but hoard and tell them all. Guard him as thy counterpart. Let him be to thee for ever a sort of beautiful enemy, untamable, devoutly revered, and not a trivial conveniency to be soon outgrown and cast aside. The hues of the opal, the light of the diamond, are not to be seen if the eye is too near. To my friend I write a letter and from him I receive a letter. That seems to you a little. It suffices me. It is a spiritual gift, worthy of him to give and of me to receive. It profanes nobody_ In these warm lines the heart will trust itself, as it will not to the tongue, and pour out the prophecy of a godlier existence than all the annals of heroism have yet made good. Respect so far the holy laws of this fellowship as not to preju~ dice its perfect flower by your impatience for its opening. W'e must be our own before we can be another's. There is at least this satisfaction in crime, according to the Latin proverb-you can speak to your accomplice on even terms. Crimen quos inquinat, cequat. To those whom we admire and love, at first we cannot. Yet the least defect of self-possession vitiates, in my judgment, the entire relation. There can never be deep peace between two spirits, never mutual respect, until in their dialogue each stands for the whole world. What is so great as friendship, let us carry with what grandeur of spirit we can. Let us be silent-so we may hear the whisper of the gods. Let us not interfere. Who set you to cast about what you should say to the select souls, or how to say any thing to such? No matter how ingenious, no matter how graceful and bland. There are innumerable degrees of folly and wisdom, and for you to say aught is to be frivolous. Wait, and thy heart shall,

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speak. Wait until the necessary and everlasting overpowers you, ~ntil day and night avail themselves of your lips. The only reward of virtue is virtue; the only way to have a friend is to be one ltou shall not come nearer a man by getting into his house .... ; unlike, his soul only flees the faster from you, and you shall never catch a true glance of his eye. We see the noble afar off and they repel us; why should we intrude? Late-very late-we perceive that no arrangements, no introductions, no consuetudes or habits of society would be of any avail to establish us in such relations with them as we desire-but solely the uprise of nature in us to the same degree it is in them; then shall we meet as water with water; and if we should not meet them then, we shall not want them, for we are already they. In the last analysis, love is only the reflection of a man's own worthiness from other men. Men have sometimes exchanged names with their friends, as if they would signify that in their friend each loved his own soul. The higher the style we demand of friendship, of course the less easy to establish it with flesh and blood. We walk alone in the world. Friends such as we desire are dreams and fables. But a sublime hope cheers ever the faithful heart, that elsewhere, in other regions of the universal power, souls are now acting, endur:ng and daring, which can love us and which we can love. We may congratulate ourselves that the period of nonage, of faIlles, of blunders and of shame, is passed in solitude, and when we are finished men we shall grasp heroic hands in heroic hands. Only be admonished by what you already see, not to strike leagues of friendship with cheap persons, where no friendship can be. Our impatience betrays us into rash and foolish alliances which no god attends. By persisting in your path, though you forfeit the little you gain the great. You demonstrate yourself, so as to put yourself out of the reach of false relations, and you draw to you the first-born of the world-those rare pilgrims whereof only one or two wander in nature at once, and before whom the vulgar great show as spectres and shadows merely. It is foolish to be afraid of rna king our ties too spiritual, as if so we could lose any genuine love. Whatever correction of our popular views we make irom insight, nature will be sure to bear

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235 us out in, and though it seem to rob us of some joy, williepay us with a gr~ater. Let us feel if we will the 8.bsolute insulation of man. \Ve are sure that we have all in us. We go to Europe, or we pursue persons, or we read books, in the instinctive faith that these will call it out and reveal us to ourselves. Beggars all. The persons are such as we; the Europe, an old faded garment of dead persons; the books, their ghosts. Let us drop this idolatry~ Let us give over this mendicancy. Let us even bid our dearest friends farewell, and defy them, saying 'vVho are you? Unhand me: I will be dependent no more.' Ah! seest thou not, 0 brother, that thus ,,"e part only to meet again on a higher platform, and only be more each other's because we are more our own? .I.~ friend is Janus-faced; he looks to the past and the future. He is the child of all my foregoing hours, the prophet of those to come J and the harbinger of a greater friend. I do then with my friends as I do with my books. I would have . them where I can find them, but I seldom use them. 'Ve must have society on our own terms, and admit or exclude it on the slightest cause. I cannot afford to speak much with my friend. If he is great he makes me so great that I cannot descend to converse. In the 'great days, presentiments hover before me in the firmament. I ought then to dedicate myself to them. I go in that I may seize theIn, I go out that I may seize them. I fear only that I may lose them receding into the sky in which now they are only a patch of brighter light. Then, though I prize my friends, I cannot afford to talk with them and study their visions, lest I lose my own. It would indeed give me a certain household joy to quit this lofty seeking, this spiritual astronomy or search of stars, and come down to warm sympathies with you; but then I know well . I shall mourn always the vanishing of my mighty gods. It is true .. next week I shall have languid moods, when I can well afford tv occupy myself with foreign objects; then I shall regret the lost literature of your mind, and wish you were by my side again. But if you COIne, perhaps you ~Till fill my mind only with new visions; not with yourself but with your lustres, and I shall not be able any more than now to converse with you. So I will owe to my friends this evanescent intercourse. I will receive from them not I

FRIENDSHIP

what they have but what they are. They shall give me that which properly they cannot give, but which emanates from them. But they shall not hold me by any relations less subtile and pure., We will meet as though we met not, and part as though we parted not. It has seemed to me lately more possible than I knew, to carry a friendship greatly, on one side, without due correspondence on the other. Why should I cumber myself with regrets that the receiver is not capacious? It never troubles the sun that some of his rays fall wide and vain into ungrateful space, and only a small part on the reflecting planet. Let your greatness educate the crude and cold companion. If he is unequal, he will presently pass away; but thou art enlarged by thy own shining, and no longer a mate for frogs and worn1S, clost soar and burn with the gods of the empyrean. It is thought a disgrace to love unrequited. But the great will see that true love cannot be unrequited. True love transcends the unworthy object and dwells and broods on the eternal, and when the poor interposed mask crumbles, it is not sad, but feels rid of so much earth and feels its independency the surer. Yet these things may hardly be said without a sort of treachery to the relation. The essence of friendship is entireness, ~ total magnanimity and trust. It must not surmise or provide for infirmity. It treats its object as a god, that it may defy both .

PRUDENCE Theme no poet gladly sung, Fair to old and foul to young; Scorn not thou the love of parts, And the articles of arts. Grandeur of the perfect sphere Thanks the atoms that cohere. WHAT right have I to write on Prudence, whereof I have little,

i

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and that of the negative sort? My prudence consists in avoiding and going without, not in the inventing of means and methods, not in adroit steering, not in gentle repairing. I have no skill to make money 'spend well, no genius in my economy, and whoever sees my garden discovers that I must have some other garden. Yet I love facts, and hate lubricity and people without perception. Then 1 have the same title to write on prudence that I have to write on poetry or holiness. We write from aspiration and anta.. gonism, as well as from experience. We paint those qualities which we do not possess. The poet admires the man of energy and tactics; the merchant breeds bis son for the church or the. bar; and where a man is not vain and egotistic you shall find what he has not by his praise. Moreover it would be hardly honest in me not to balance these fine lyric words of Love and Friendship with words of coarser sound, and whilst my debt to my senses is real and constant, not to own it in passing. Prudence is the virtue of the senses a It is the science of appearancesa It is the outmost action of the inward life . It is God taking thought for oxen. It moves matter after the laws of matter . It i&, content to seek health of body by complying with physical conditions, and health of mind by the laws of the intellect. The world of the senses is a world of shows; it does not exist for itself, but has a symbolic character; and a true prudence or la,v of shows recognizes the co-presence of other laws and knows

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that its own office is subaltern; knows that it is surface and not centre where it works. Prudence is false when detached. It is legitimate when it is the Natural History of the soul incarnate, when it unfolds the beauty of laws within the narrow scope of the senses. There are all degrees of proficiency in knowledge of the world. It is sufficient to our present purpose to indicate three. One class live to the utility of the symbol, esteeming health and wealth a final good. Another class live above this mark to the beauty of the sjmbol, as the poet and artist and the naturalist and nlan of science. A third class live above the beauty of the symbol to the beauty of the thing signified; these are wise men. The first class have common sense; the second, taste; and the third, spiritual perception. Once in a long time, a man traverses the whole scale, and sees and enjoys the symbol solidly, then also has a clea.r eye ~or its beauty, and lastly, whilst he pitches his tent on this sacred volcanic isle of nature, does not offer to build houses and barns thereon-reverencing the splendor of the God which he sees bursting through each chink and cranny. The world is filled with the proverbs and acts and winkings of of a base prudence, which is a devotion to matter, as if we possessed no other faculties than the palate, the nose, the touch, the eye and ear; a prudence which adores the Rule of Three, which never subscribes, which never gives, which seldom lends, and asks but one question of any project-Will it bake bread? This is a disease like a thickening of the skin until the vital organs are destroyed. But culture, revealing the high origin of the apparent world and aiming at the perfection of the man at the end, degrades every thing else, as health and bodily life, into means. It sees prudence not to be a several faculty, but a name for wisdom and virtue conversing with the body and its wants . Cultivated men always feel and speak. so, as if a great fortune, the achievement of a civil or social measure, gteat personal influence, a graceful and commanding address, had their value as proofs of the energy of the spirit. If a man lose his balance and immerse himself in any trades or pleasures for their own sake, he may be a good wheel or pin, but he is not a cultivated man.

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The spurious prudence, making the senses final, is the god ot sots and cowards, and is the subject of all comedy. It is nature's joke, and therefore literature's. The true prudence limits this sensualism by adnlitting the knowledge of an internal and real world. This recognition once made, the order of the world and the distribution of affairs and times, being studied with the coperception of their subordinate place, 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 to climate and to country, so alive to social good and evil, so fond of splendor and so tender to hunger and cold and debt-reads all its primary lessons out of these books. Prudence does not go behind nature and ask whence it is. It takes the laws of the world whereby man's being is conditioned, as they are, and keeps these laws that it may enjoy their proper good. It respects space and time, climate, want, sleep, the law of polarity, growth and death. There revolve, to give bound and period to his being on all sides, the sun and moon, the great formalists in the sky: here lies stubborn matter, and will not swerve from its chemical routine. Here is a planted globe, pierced and belted with natural laws and fenced and distributed externally with civil partitions and properties which impose new restraints on the young inhabitant. We eat of the bread which grows in the field. We live by the air which blows around us and we are poisoned by the air that is too cold or too hot, too dry or too wet. Time, which shows so vacant, indivisible and divine in its coming, is slit and peddled into trifles and tatters. A door is to be painted, a lock to be repaired. I want wood or oil, or meal or salt; the house smokes 1 or I have a headache; then the tax, and an affair to be transacted with a man without heart or brains, and the stinging recollection of an injurious or very awkvlard word-these eat up the hours. Do what we can, summer will have its flies; if we walk in tht woods we must feed mosquitos; if we go a-fishing we must expect a wet coat. Then climate is a great impediment to idle persons; we otten resolve to give up the care of the weather, but still we regard the clouds and the rain.

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

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24 I

strown with satisfactions. There is more difference in the quality of our pleasures than in the amount. On the other hand, nature punishes any neglect of prudence . If you think the senses final, obey their law. If you believe in the soul, do not clutch at sensual sweetness before it is ripe on the slow tree of cause and effect. It is vinegar to the eyes to deal with men of loose and imperfect perception. Dr. Johnson is reported to have said-"lf the child says he looked out of this window, when he looked out of that-whip him." Our American character is marked by a more than average delight in accurate perception, which is shown by the currency of the byword, "No mistake." But the discomfort of unpunctuality, of confusion of thought about facts, inattention to the wants of to ..morrow, is of no nation. The beautiful laws of time and space, once dislocated by our inaptitude, are holes and dens. If the hive be disturbed by rash and stupid hands, instead of honey it will yield us bees. Our words and actions to be fair must be timely. A gay and pleasant sound is the whetting of the scythe in the mornings of June, yet what is more lonesome and sad than the sound of a whetstone or mower's rifle when it is too late in the season to make hay? Scat.. ter-brained and "afternoon" men spoil much more than their own affair in spoiling the temper of those who deal with them. I have seen a criticism on some paintings, of which I am reminded when I see the shiftless and unhappy men who are not true to their senses. The last Grand Duke of Weimar, a man of superior under.. standing, said-"I have sometimes remarked in the presence of great works of art, and just now especially in Dresden, how much a certain property contributes to the effect which gives life to the figures, and to the life an irresistible truth. This property is the hitting, in all the figures we draw, the right centre of gravity. 1 mean the placing the figures firm upon their feet, making the hands grasp, and fastening the eyes on the spot where they should look. Even lifeless figures, as vessels and stools-let them be drawn ever so correctly-lose all effect so soon as they lack the resting upon their centre of gravity, and have a certain swimming and oscillating appearance. The Raphael in the Dresden gallery (the only great affecting pi~ture which I have seen) is the quietest

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and most passionleds piece you can imagine; a couple of saints who worship the Virgin and Child. Nevertheless it awakens a deeper impression than the contortions of ten crucified martyrs. For beside all the resistless beauty of form, it possesses in the highest degree the property of the perpendicularity of all the figures." This perpendicularity we demand of all the figures in this picture of life. Let them stand on their feet, and not float and swing. Let us know where to find them. Let them discrim.. inate between what they remember and what they dreamed, call a spade a spade, give us facts, and honor their own senses with trust. But what man shall dare task another with imprudence? Who is prudent? The men we call greatest are least in this kingdom. There is a certain fatal dislocation in our relation to nature, distorting our modes of living and making every law our enemy, which seems at last to have aroused all the wit and virtue in the world to ponder the question of Reform. We must call the highest prudence to counsel, and ask why health and beauty and genius 3hould now be the exception rather than the rule of human nature? We do not know the properties of plants and animals and the laws of nature, through our sympathy with the same; but this remains the dream of poets. Poetry and prudence should be coincident. Poets should be lawgivers; that is, the boldest lyric inspiration should not chide and insult, but should announce and lead the civil code and the day's work. But now the two things seem irreconcilably parted. We have violated law upon law until we stand amidst ruins, and when by chance we espy a coincidence between reason and the phenomena, we are surprised. Beauty should be the dowry of every man and woman, as invariably as sensation; but it is rare. Health or sound organization should be universal. Genius should be the child of genius and every child should be inspired ~ but now it is not to be predicted of any child, and nowhere is it pure. We call partial half-lights, by courtesy, genius; talent which converts itself to money; talent which gUt.. ters today that it may dine and sleep wen to-morrow ~ and society is officered by men of parts, as they are properly called, and not by divine men. These use their gift to refine luxury, not to abolish

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it. Genius is always ascetic, and piety, and love. Appetite shows to the fIner souls as a disease, and they find beauty in rites and bounds that resist it. We have found out fine naines to cover our sensuality withal, but no gifts can raise intemperance. The man of talent affects to call his transgressions of the la,vs of the senses trivial and to count them nothing considered with his devotion to his art. His art never taught him lewdness, nor the love of wine, nor the wish to reap where he had not sowed. His art is less for every deduc... tion from his holiness, and less for every defect of common sense. On him who scorned the world, as he said, the scorned world wreaks its revenge. He that despiseth small things will perish by little and little. Goethe's Tasso is very likely to be a pretty fair historic portrait, and that is true tragedy. It does not seem to me so genuine grief when some tyrannous Richard the Third oppresses and slays a score of innocent persuns, as when Antonio dnd Tasso, both apparently right, wrong each other. One living after the maxims of this world and consistent and true to them, the other fired with all divine sentiments, yet grasping also at the pleasures of sense, without submitting to their law. That is a grief we all feel, a knot we cannot untie. Tasso's is no unfrequent case in modern biography. A man of genius, of an ardent tern. . perament, reckless of physical laws, self-indulgent, becomes pres.. ently unfortunate, querulous, a "discomfortable cousin," a thorl'" to himself and to others. The scholar shames us by his bifold life. 'Vhilst something higher than prudence is active, he is admirable; when comlnon sense is wanted, he is an encumbrance. Yesterday, Cresar was not "~O great; to-day, the felon at the gallows' foot is not more miserable. Yesterday, radiant with the light of an ideal world in which he lives, the first of men; and now oppressed by wants and by sickness, for which he must thank himself. He resembles the pitiful drivellers whom travellers describe as frequenting the bazaars of Constantinople, who skulk. about all day, yellow, emaciated, ragged, sneaking; and at evening, when the bazaars B.re open, slink: to the opium-shop, swallow their morsel and become tranquil and glorified seers. And who has not seen the

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tragedy of imprudent genius struggling for years with paltry

pecuniary difficulties, at last sinking, chilled, exhausted and fruitless, like a giant slaughtered by pins? Is it not better that a man should accept the first pains and mortifications of this sort, which nature is not slack in sending him, as hints that be must expect no other good than the just fruit of his own labor and self-denial? Health, bread, climate, social position, have their importance, and he will give them their due. Let him esteem Nature a perpetual counsellor, and her perfections the exact measure of our deviations. Let him make the night night, and the day day. Let him control the habit of expense. Let him see that as much wisdom may be expended on a private economy as on an empire, and as much wisdom may be drawn from it. The laws of the world are written out for him on every piece of money in his hand. There is nothing he will not be the better for knowing, were it only the wisdom of Poor Richard, or the State-Street prudence of buying by the acre to sell by the foot; or the thrift of the agriculturist, to stick a tree between whiles, because it will grow whilst he sleeps; or the prudence which consists in husbanding little strokes of the tool, little portions of time, particles of stock and small gains. The eye of prudence may never shut. Iron, if kept at the ironmonger's, win rust; beer, if l10t brewed in the right state of the atmosphere, will sour; timber of ships will rot at sea, or if laid up high and dry, will strain, warp and dry-rot; money, if kept by us, yields no rent and is liable to loss; ~f invested, is liable to depreciation of the particular kind of stock. Strike, says the smith, the iron is white; keep the rake, says the haymaker, as nigh the scythe as you can, and the cart as nigh the rake. Our Yankee trade is reputed to be very nluch on the extreme of this prudence. It takes bank-notes, good, bad, clean, ragged, and saves itself by the speed with which it passes ~hem off. Iron cannot rust, nor beer sour, nor timber rot, nor calicos go out of fashion, nor money stocks depreciate, in the few swift moments in which the Yankee suffers anyone of them to remain in his possession. In skating over thin ice our safety is in our speed. Let him learn a prudence of a higher strain. Let him learn that

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every thing in nature, even -motes and feathers, go by law and not by luck, and that what he sows he reaps. By diligence and self-command let him I?ut ~he bread he eats at his own disposal, that he may not stand In bItter and false relations to other men·, for the best good of wealth is freedom. Let him practice the minor virtues. How much of human life is lost in waiting! Let him not make his fellow-creatures wait. How many words and promises are promises of conversation! Let his be words of fate. When he sees a folded and sealed scrap of paper float round the globe in a pine ship and come safe to the eye for which it was written, amidst a swarming population, let him likewise feel the admonition to integrate his being across all these distracting forces, and keep a slender human word among the storms, distances and accidents that drive us hither and thither, and, by 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 anyone virtue, looking at that only. Human nature loves no contradictions, but is symmetrical. The prudence which secures an outward well-being is not to be studied by one set of men, whilst heroism and holiness are studied by another, but they are reconcilable. Prudence concerns the present time, persons, property and existing forms. But as every fact hath its roots in the soul, and if the soul were changed would cease to be, or would become some other thingthe proper administration of outward things will always rest on ~ just apprehension of their cause and origin; that is, the good man will be the wise man, and the single-hearted the politic man. Every violation of 1ruth is not only a sort of suicide in the liar, but is a stab at the health of human society. On the most profit.. able lie the course of events presently lays a destructive tax; whilst frankness invites frankness, puts the parties on a con.. venient footing and makes their business a friendship. Trust men and they will be true to you; treat them greatly and they wiU show themselves great, though they make an exception in your favor to all th~ir rules of trade. So in rrgard to disagreeable and formidable things, prudence does 'not consist in evasion or in flight, but in courage. He wh.o

PRUDENCE

wishes to walk in the most peaceful parts of life with any serenit~ must screw himself up to resolution. Let him front the object ot his worst apprehension, and his stoutness will commonly make his fear groundless. The Latin proverb says, "In battles the eye io first overcome." Entire self-possession Inay make a battle very little more dangerous to life than a match at foils or at football. Examples are cited by soldiers of men who have seen the cannon pointed and the fire given to it, and who have stepped aside from the path of the ball. The terrors of the storm are chiefly confined to the parlor and the cabin. The drover, the sailor, buffets it all day, and his health renews itself at as vigorous a pulse under the sleet as under the sun of June. In the occurrence of unpleasant things among neighbors, fear l:omes readily to heart and magnifies the consequence of the other party; but it is a bad counsellor. Every man is actually weak and apparently strong. To himself he seems weak; to others, formidable. You are afraid of Grim; but Grim also is afraid of you. You are solicitous of the good-will of the meanest person, uneasy at his ill-will. But the sturdiest offender of your peace and of the neighborhood, if you rip up his claims, is as thin and timid as any" and the peace of society is often kept, because, as children say, one is afraid and the other dares not. Far off, men swell, bully and threaten; bring them hand to hand, and they are a feeble folk.. It is a proverb that 'courtesy costs nothing;' but calculation might come to value love for its profit. Love is fabled to be blind, but kindness is necessary to perception; love is not a hood, but aLl eye-water. If you meet a sectary or a hostile partisan, never recognize the dividing lines, but meet on what common ground remains-if only that the sun shines and the rain rains for both; the area will widen very fast, and ere you know it, the boundary mountains on which the eye had fastened have melted into air. If they set out to contend, Saint Paul will lie and Saint John will hate. What low, poor, paltry, hypocritical people an argument on religion will make of the pure and chosen souls! They will shuffle and crow, crook and hide, feign to confess here, only that they

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may brag and conquer there, and not a thought has enriched either party, and not an emotion of bravery, modesty, or hope. So neither should you put yourself in a false position with your contemporaries by indulging a vein of hostility and bitternes~" Though your views are in straight antagonism to theirs, assuml? an identity of sentin1ent, assume that you are saying precisely that which all think, and in the flow of wit and love roll out your paradoxes in solid column, with not the infirmity of a doubt. S4) at least shall you get an adequate deliverance. The natural mo tions of the soul are so much better than the voluntary ones that. you will never do yourself justice in dispute. The thought is not then taken hold of by the right handle, does not show itself pro .. portioned and in its true bearings, but bears extorted, hoarse, and half witness. But assume a consent and it shall presently be granted, since really and underneath their external diversities, aU men are of one heart and mind. Wisdom will never let us stand with any man or men on arCl unfriendly footing. We refuse sympathy and intimacy with people, as if we waited for some better sympathy and intimacy to come. But whence and when? To-morrow will be like to-day_ Life wastes itself whilst we are preparing to live. Our friends and fellow-workers die off from us. Scarcely can we say we see new Inen, new women, approaching us. We are too old to regarn fashion, too old to expect patronage of any greater or more power. ful. Let us suck the s,\\Teetness of those affections and consue.. tudes that grow near us. These old shoes are easy to the feet. Undoubtedly we can easily pick faults in our company, can easily whisper names prouder, and that tickle the fancy more. Every man '5 imagination hath its friends; and life would be dearer with such companions. But if you cannot have them on good mutual terms, you cannot have them. If not the Deity but our ambition hews and shapes the new relations, their virtue escapes, as straw... berries lose their flavor in garden-beds. Thus truth, frankness, courage, love, humility and all the vir· tues range themselves on the side of prudence, or the art of securing a present well-being. I do not know if all matter will be founn

P:aUDENCE

to be made of one element, as oxygen or hydrogen, at last, but the world of manners and actions is wrought of one stuff, and begin where we will, we are pretty sure in a short space to be mumbling our ten commandmentsCi

HEROISM "Paradise is under the shadow of swords."

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

IN

elder English dramatists, and mainly in the plays of Beaumont and Fletcher, there is a constant recognition of gen· tility, as if a noble behavior were as easily marked in the society of their age as color is in our American population. When any Rodrigo, Pedro or Valerio enters, though he be a stranger, the duke or governor exclaims, 'This is a gentleman'-and proffers civilities without end; but all the rest are slag and refuse. In harmony with this delight in personal advantages there is in their plays a certain heroic cast of character and dialogue-as in Bon . . duca, Sophocles, the Mad Lover, the Double Marriage-wherein the speaker is so earnest and cordial and on such deep grounds of character, that the dialogue, on the slightest additional incident in the plot, rises naturally into poetry. Among many texts take the following. The Roman Martius has conquered Athensall but the invincible spirits of Sophocles, the duke of Athens, and Dorigen, his wife. The beauty of the latter inflames 1Iartius, and he seeks to save her husband; but Sophocles will not ask his life, although assured that a word will save him1 and the execu.. tiOD of both proceeds:THE

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Valerius. Bid thy wife farewelt Sopko No, I will take no leave. My Dorigen, Yonder, above, 'bout Ariadne's crown, l\d:y spirit shall hover for thee. Prithee, haste. Dor. Stay, Sophocles-with this tie up my sight; Let not soft nature so transformed be, And lose her gentler sexed humanity, To make me see my lord bleed. So, 't is well; Never one object underneath the sun Will I behold before my Sophocles: Farewell; now teach the Romans how to die. Mar . Dost know what 't is to die? Sopko Thou dost not, Martius, And, therefore, not what 't is to live; to die Is to begin to live. It is to end· An old, stale, weary work and to commence A newer and a better. 'T is to leave Deceitful knaves for the society Of gods and goodness. Thou thyself must part At last from all thy garlands, pleasures, triumphs, And. prove thy fortitude what then 't will do . Val. But art not grieved nor vexed to leave thy life thus? Sopko Why should I grieve or vex for being sent To them I ever loved best? Now I '11 kneel, But with my back toward thee: 't is the last duty This trunk can do the gods. Mar. Strike, strike, Valerius, Or 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. \\lhat ails my brother? Sopk. Martius, 0 Martius, Thou now hast found a way to conquer me.

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Dor. 0 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 lvlartius' 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 fiutes and flageolets, but not often the sound of any fife. Yet Wordsworth's '4 1844, and soon afterwa1'd also in England. The essays had been used in various forms before various publics as lectures, and were completely rewritten for use in the book. This book was better received than its predeo,j cessot"s.]

THE POF,T A m.oody child and 'wildly ~ise PUlsued the game 'with joyful eYe50 \Vhich chose, hJ..:e meteors, their ,,"a y. And rh~ed the dark "ith private ray: They overleapt the horizon's edge, Searched '\yith .-\.pollo'5 privilege; Through man, and '\\?oman, and sea, and star Savy" the dance of nature forward far; Through worlds, and races, and terms, and time£ Saw musical order, and pairing rhymes.

Olympian bards who sung Divine ideas below, \Vhich al~"ays find us young, And always keep us so.

who are esteemed umpires of taste are often persons who have acquired some knowledge of admired pictures or sculptures, and have an inclination for whatever is elegant; but if you inquire whether they are beautiful souls, and whether their own acts are like fair pictures, you learn that they are selfish and sensuaL Their cultivation is local, as if you should rub a log of dry wood in one spot to produce fire, all the rest remailling cold. 1heir knowledge of the fine arts is some study of rules arc1 particulars, or some limited judgment of color or form, V\Thich i~ exercisrd for amusement or for show. It is a proof of the shai~owness of the doctrine of beauty as it lies in the minds of our amateurs, that men seem to have lost the perception of the instant dependence of form upon soul. There is no doctrine of forms in our philos.. ophy. \T.l e were put into our bodies, as fire is put into a pan to be carried about; but there is no accurate adjustment between the spirit and the organ, much less is t!1e latter the germinatior of the former. So in regarn. to other fonns, t~e intellectuaJ nl~t).

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de not believe in any essential dependence of the material world on thought and volition. Theologians think it a pretty air-castle to talk of the spiritual meaning of a ship or a cloud, of a city or a contract, but they prefer to come again to the solid ground of historical evidence; and even the poets are con ten ted with a civil and conformed manner of living, and to write poems from the fancy, at a safe distance from their own experience. But the hiahest minds of the world have never ceased to explore the o double meaning, or shall I say the quadruple or the centuple or much more manifold meaning, of every sensuous fact; Orpheus, Empedocles, Heraclitus, Plato, Plutarch, Dante, Swedenborg, and the masters of sculpture, picture and poetry. For we are not pans and barrows, nor even porters of the fire and torch-bearers, but children of the fire, made of it, and only the same divinity transmuted and at two or three removes, when we know least about it. And this hidden truth, that the fountains whence all this river of Time and its creatures fioweth are intrinsically ideal and beautiful, draws us to the consideration of the nature and functions of the Poet, or the man of Beauty; to the means and materials he uses, and to the general aspect of the art in the present time. The breadth of the problem is great, for the poet is repre~ sentative. He stands among partial men for the complete man, and apprises us not of his wealth, but of the common wealth. "The young man reveres men of genius, because, to speak truly, lthey are more himself than he is. They receive of the soul as he ~ receives, but they more. Nature enhances her beauty, to the eye of loving men, from their belief that the poet is beholding her shows at the same time. He is isolated among his contemporaries by truth and by his art, but with this consolation in his pursuits~ that they will draw all men sooner or later. For all men li,"e by truth and stand in need of expression. In love, in art, in avarice, in politics, in labor, in games, we study to utter our painful secret. The man is only half himself, the other half is his expreSSIon. !\"otwithstanding this necessi~y to be published, adequate ex'r)ression is rare. I know not how it is that we need an interpreter~

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out the great majority of men seem to be minors, -vv-ho have not yet come into possession of their own, or mutes, who cannot report the conversation they have bad 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. "l. .et, in our experience, the rays or appulse(~ have sufficient force to arrive at the senses, but not enough t{) reach the quick and compel the repruduction of themselves in speech. The poet is the person in whom these powers are in bal. ance, the man without impediment, who sees and handles tha1 which others dream of, traverses the whole scale of experience~ and is representative of man, in virtue of being the largest po-wer to receive and to impart. For the Universe has three children, born at one time, which reappear under different names in every system of thought, whether they be called cause, operation and effect; or, more poetically, Jove, Pluto, Neptune; or, theologically, the Father~ the Spirit and the Son; but which we will call here the Knower; the Doer and the Sayer. These stand respectively for the love of truth, for the love of good, and for the love of beauty_ These three are equal. Each is that which he is, essentially, so that be cannot be surmounted or analyzed, and each of these three has the power of the others latent in him and his own, patent. The poet is the sayer, the namer, and represents beauty. He is a sovereign, and stands on the centre. For the world is not painted or adorned, but is from the beginning beautiful; and God han not made some beautiful things, but Beauty is the creator of the universe. Therefore the poet is not any permissive potentate, but is emperor in his own right. Criticism is infested with a cant of materialism, which assumes that manual skill and activity is the first merit of all men, and disparages such as say and do not, overlooking the fact that some men, namely poets, are natural

THE POET 322 sayers, sent into the world to the end of expression, and con. . founds them with those whose province is action but who quit it to imitate the sayers. But Homer's words are as costly and ad.. mirable to Homer as Agamemnon's victories are to Agamemnon. The poet does not wait for the hero or the sage, but, as they act and think primarily, so he ,vrites primarily what will and mu~t 'be spoken, reckoning the others, though primaries also, yet, irl respect to him, secondaries and servants; as sitters or models in the studio of a painter, or as assistants who bring building.. materials to an architect. For poetry was all written before time was, and whenever we are so finely organized that Vle can penetrate into that region where the air is music, we hear those primal warblings and attempt to write them down, but we lose ever and anon a word or a verse and substitute something of our own, and thus miswrite the poem. The men of more delicate ear write down these ,=adences more faithfully, and these transcripts, though imperfect, become the songs of the nations. For nature is as truly beautiful as it is good, or as it is reasonable, and must as much appear as it must be done, or be known. Words and deeds aTf' 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 Ulan foretold. He is the true and only doctor; he knows and tells; be is the only teller of news, for he was present and privy to the appearance which he describes. He is a beholder of ideas and an utterer of the necessa.ry and causal. For we do not speak now of men of poetical talents, or of industry and skill in metre, but of the true poet. I took part in a conversation the other day concerning a recent writer of lyrics, a man of subtle mind,. whose head appeared to be a music-box of delicate tunes and rhythms, and. whose skill and command of language we coulrl not suffi~iently praise. But "Then the question arose whether he was not would conquer all things to his poor crotchet, she raises up against him another person, and by many persons incarnates again a sort of whole: She will have all. Nick. Bottom cannot play all the parts, work it how he may; there will be somebody else, and the world will be round. Everything must have its flower or effort at the beautiful, coarser or finer according to its stuff. They relieve and recommend each other, and the sanity of society is a balanc~ of a thousand insanities. She punishes abstractionists, and will only forgive an induction which is rare and casuaL \\"re like to come to a height of land and see the landscape, just as we value a. general remark in conversation. But it is not the intention of Nature that we should live by general views. We fetch fire aut

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water, run about all day among the shops and markets, and get our clothes and shoes made and mended, and are the victims of these details; and once in a fortnight we arrive perhaps at a rational nloment. If ,\ve were not thus infatuated, if we saw the real from hour to hour, we should not be here to write and to read, but should have been burned or frozen long ago. She would never get anything done, if she suffered Admirable Crichtons and universal geniuses. She loves better a wheelwright who dreams all night of wheels, and a groom who is part of his horse; for she is full of work, and these are her hands. As the frugal farmer takes care that his cattle shall eat down the rowen, and swine shall cat the waste of his house, and poultry shall pick the crumbs -so our economical mother dispatches a new genius and habit of mind into every district and condition of existence, plants an eye wherever a new ray of light can fall, and gathering up into some man every property in the universe, establishes thousandfold occult mutual attractions among her offspring, that alL this wash and waste of power may be imparted and exchanged. Great dangers undoubtedly accrue from this incarnation and distribution of the godhead, and hence Nature has her maligners, as if she were Circe; and Alphonso of Castile fancied he could have given useful advice. But she does not go unprovided; she has hellebore at the bottom of the cup. Solitude would ripen a plentiful crop of despots. The recluse thinks of men as having his manner, or as not having his manner; and as having degrees of it, more and less. But when he comes into a public assembly he sees that men have very different manners from his own, and in their way admirable. In his childhood and youth he has had many checks and censures, and thinks modestly enough of his own endowment. "~en afterwards he comes to unfold it in propitious circumstance, it seems the only talent; he is delighted with his success, and accounts himself alfeady the fellow of the great. But he goes into a mob, into a banking house, into a. mechanic's shop, into a mill, into a laboratory, into a ship, into a camp, and in each new place he is no better than an idiot; other talents take place, and rule the hour. The rotation which

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whirls every leaf and pebble to the meridian, reac'.ues to every gift of man, and we all take turns at the top. For Nature, who abhors mannerism, has set her heart on breaking up all styles and tricks, and it is so much easier to do what one has done before than to do a new thing, that there is a perpetual tendency to a set mode. In every conversation, even the highest, there is a certain trick, which may be soon learned by an acute person, and then that particular style continued indefinitely. Each man too is a tyrant in tendency, because he would impose his idea on others; and their trick is their natural defence. Jesus would absorb the race; but Tom ~Paine or the coarsest blasphemer helps humanity by resisting thi.s exuberance of power. Hence the immense benefit of party in politics, as it reveals faults of character in a chief, which the intellectual force of the persons, with ordinary opportunity and not hurled into aphelion by hatred, could not have seen. Since we are all so stupid, what benefit that there should be two stupidities! It is like that brute advantage so essential to astronomy, of having the diameter of the earth's orbit for a base of its triangles. Democracy is morose, and runs to anarchy, but in the State and in the schools it is indispensable to resist the consolidation of all men into a few men. If John was perfect, why are you and I alive? As long as any man exists, there is some need of him; let him fight for his own. A new poet has appeared; a new char.. acter approached us; why should we refuse to eat bread until we have found his regiment and section in our old army-files? Why not a new man? Here is a new enterprise of Brook Farm! of Skeneateles, of Northampton: why so impatient to baptize them Essenes, or Port-Royalists, or Shakers, or by any known and effete name? Let it be a new way of living. '\Vby have onlj two or three ways of life, and not thousands? Every man is wanted, and no man is wanted much. We came this time for condiments, not for corn. We want the great genius only for joy; for one star more in our constellation, for one tree more in our grove. But he thinks we wish to belong to him, as he wishes to occupy us. He greatly mistakes us. I think I have done well if 1

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have acquired a new word from a good author; and my business ""ith him is to find my own, though it were only to melt him ..1own into an epithet or an image for daily use: "Into paint will I grind thee, my briqe!" To embroil the confusion and make it impossible to arrive at any general statement-when we have insisted on the imperfection of individuals, our affections and our experience urge that e,"ery individual is entitled to honor, and a very generous treatment is sure to be repaid. A recluse sees only two or three persons, and allows thenl all their room; they spread themselves at large. The statesman looks at many, and compares the few habitually with others, and these look less. Yet are they not entitled to this generosity of reception? and is not munificence the means of insight? For though gamesters say that the cards beat all the players, though they were never so skilful, yet in the contest we are now considering, the players are also the game, and share the power of the cards. If you criticise a fine genius, the odds are that you are out of your reckoning, and instead of the poet, are censuring your own caricature of him. For there is somewhat spheral and infinite in every man, especially in every genius, which, if you can come very near him, sports "ith all your limitations. For rightly every man is a eba,nnel through which heaven fioweth, and whilst I fancied I was criticising him, I was censuring or rather terminating my own soul ...:\fter ta..-nng Goethe as a courtier, artificial, unbelieving, worldly-I took up this book of Helena, and found him an Indian of the wilderness, a piece of pure nature like an apple or an oak, large as morning or night, and virtuous as a brier-rose. But care is taken that the whole tune shall be played. If we were not kept among surfaces, everything would be large and universal ~ now the excluded attributes burst in on us with the more brightness that they have been excluded. "Your turn now, my tum next," is the rule of the game. The universality being hindered in its primary form, comes in the secondary form of all sides; the points come in succession to the meridian, and by the speed of rotation a new whole is formed. Nature keeps

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herself whole ~nd her representation complete in the e~'Peri... ence of each mInd. She suffers no seat to be vacant in her college. It is the secret of the world that all things subsist and do not die, but only retire a little from sight and afterwards return again. Whatever does not concern us is concealed from us .•~ soon as a person is no longer related to our present well-being, he is concealed, or dies, as we say. Really, all things and persons are related to us, but according to our nature they act on us not at once but in succession, and we are made aware of their presence one at a time. All persons, all things which we have known, are here present, and many more than we see; the world is full. As the ancient said, the world is a plenum or solid; and if we sawall things that really surround us we should be imprisoned and unable to move. For though nothing is impassable to the soul, but all things are pervious to it and like highways, yet this is only whilst the soul does not see them. As soon as the soul sees any object, it stops before that object. Therefore the divine Providence which keeps the universe open in every direction to the soul, conceals all the furniture and all the persons that do not concern a particular soul, from the senses of that individual. Through solidest eternal things the man finds his road as if they did not subsist, and does not once suspect their being. As soon as he needs a new object, suddenly he beholds it, and no longer attempts to pass through it, but takes another way. When he has exhausted for the time the nourishment to be drawn from anyone person or thing, that object is withdrawn from his observation, and though still in his immediate neighborhood, he does not suspect its presence. Nothing is dead: men feign themselves dead, and endure mock funerals and mournful obituaries, and there they stand looking out of the window, sound and well, in some new and strange disguise. Jesus is not dead; he is very well alive: nor John, nor Paul, nor Mahomet, nor Aristotle; at times we believe -we have seen them all and could easily tell the names under which they go. If we' cannot make voluntary and conscious steps in the admirable science of universals, let us see the parts wisely, and infer the genius of nature from the best particulars with a be-

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coming charity. \Vhat is best in each kind is an index of what should be the average of that thing. Love sho\vs me the opulence of nature, by disclosing to me in my friend a hidden wealth, and I infer an equal depth of good in every other direction. It is commonly said by farmers that a good pear or apple costs no more time or pains to rear than a poor one; so I would have no work of art, no speech, or action, or thought, or friend, but the best. The end and the n1eans, the gamester and the game-life is made up of the intermixture and reaction of these two amicable powers, whose marriage appears beforehand monstrous, as each denies and tends to abolish the other. ,\re must reconcile the contradictions as we can, but their discord and their concord introduce wild absurdities into our thinking and speech. No sen.. tence v,~ill hold the whole truth, and the only way in which we can be jusf, is by giving ourselves the lie; Speech is better than silence; silence is better than speech; All things are in contact; every atom has a spbere of repulsion; Things are, and are not, at the same time; and the like. All the universe over, there is but one thing, this old Two-Face, creator-creature, mind-matter, right-mong, of which any proposition may be affirmed or de .. nied. \7ery fitly therefore I assert that every man is a partialist; that nature secures him as an instrun1ent by self-conceit, pre.. venting the tendencies to religion and science; and now further assert, that, each man's genius being nearly and affectionately explored, he is justified in his individuality, as his nature is found to be immense; and now I add that every man is a uni .. versalist also, and, as our earth, whilst it spins on its own a...-ns, spins all the time around the sun through the celestial spaces, so CJ.e least of its rational children, the most dedicated to his private affair, works Qut, though as it were under a disguise, the universal problem. e fancy men are individuals; so are pumpkins; but every pumpkin in the field goes through every point of pumpkin history. The rabid democrat, as soon as he is senator and rich man, has ripened beyond possibility of sincere radical .. ism, and unless he can resist the sun, he must be conservative the remainder of his days. Lord Eldon said in his old age that

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"if he were to begin life again, he wouid be damned but he would begin as agitator." 'Ve hide this universality if we can, but it appears at all points. \\T e 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. "Ve keep a running fire of sarcasm at ignorance and the life of the senses; then goes by, perchance, a fair girl, a piece of life, gay and happy, and making the commonest offices heautiful by the energy and heart with which she does them: and seeing this we admire and love her and them, and say, ~Lot a, genuine creature of the fair earth, not dissipated or too early ripened by books: philosophy, religion, society, or care~ ~ insinuating a treachery and contempt for all we had so long loved and wrought in ourselves and others. If we could have any security against moods! If the profoundest prophet could be holden to his words, and the hearer who is ready to sell all and join the crusade could have any certificate that to-morrow his prophet shall not unsay his testi.. mony! But the Truth sits veiled there on the Bench, and never interposes an adan1antine syllable; and the most sincere and revolutionary doctrine, put as if the ark of God were carried forward some furlongs, and planted there for the succor of the world, shall in a few weeks be coldly set aside by the same speaker, as morbid; '~I thought I was right, but I was not," and the same immeasurable credulity demanded for new audacities. If we were not of all opinions! if we did not in any moment shift the platform on which \ve stand, and look and speak. from another 1 if there could be any regulation, any 'one-hour-rule: that a man should never leave his point of view without sound of trumpet. I am always insincere, as always knowing there are other moods. How sincere and confidential we can be, saying all that lies in the mind, and yet go away feeling that all is yet unsaid: from the incapacity of the parties to know each other, although they use the same words! IVly companion assumes to know my mood and habit of thought, and we go on from explanation to ex{>lanation until all is said which words can, and we leave

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matters just as they were at first, because of that vicious as . . sumption. Is it that every man believes every other to be an incurable partialist, and himself a universalist? I talked yesterday with a pair of philosophers; I endeavored to 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 and rats; that I revered ; saints, but woke up glad that the old pagan world stood its ground and died hard; that I was glad of men of every gift and nobility, but would not live in their arms. Could they but once understand that I loved to know that they existed, and heartily wished them God-speed, yet, out of my poverty of life and thought, had no word or welcome for them when they came to see me, and could well consent to their living in Oregon for any claim I felt on them-it would be a great satisfaction.

NEW ENGLAND REFORl\IERS LECTURE READ BEFORE THE SOCIETI: IN .A}"!ORY HA.LL, ON SL""NDA.Y, M.>\RCH 3, 1844 In the suburb, in the to\\~, On the railway, in the square, Came a beam of goodness down Doubling daylight everY,\\"here: Peace no\v each for malice takes, Beauty for his sinful weeds, F or the angel Hope aye makes Him an angel "-"hom she leads.

has had opportunity of acquaintance with society in New England during the last twenty-five years, with those middle and with those leading sections that may constitute any just representation of the character and aim of the community, will have been struck with the great activity of thought and experimenting. His attention must be commanded by the signs that the Church, or religious party, is falling from the Church nomillal, and is appearing in temperance and non-resistance societie,,; in movements of abolitionists and of socialists; and in very significant assemblies called Sabbath and Bible Conven.. tions; composed of ultraists, of seekers, of all the soul of the soldiery of dissent, and meeting to call in question the authority of the Sabbath, of the priesthood, and of the Church. In these movements nothing was more remarkable than the discontent they begot in the movers. The spirit of protest and of detach·· ment drove the members of these Conventions to bear testimony against the Church, and immediately afterwards to declare their discontent with these Conventions, their independence of their. colleagues, and their impatience of the methods whereby they were working. They defied each other, like a congress of kings, each of whom had a realm to rule, and a way of his own that made concert unprofitable. '\Vhat a fertility of projects for th@ WHOEVER

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salvation of the world! One apostle thought all men should go to farming, and another that no man should buy or sell, that the use of money was the cardinal evil; another that the mischief was in our diet, that we eat and drink damnation. These made unleavened bread, and ,,"ere foes to the death to fermentation. It was in vain urged by the housewife that God made yeast, as well as dough, and loves fermentation just as dearly as he loves vegetation; that fermentation develops the saccharine element in the grain, and makes it more palatable and more digestible. N a ~ they wish the pure wheat, and will die but it shall not ferment. Stop, dear Nature, these incessant advances of thine; let us scotch these ever-rolling wheels! Others attacked the system of agriculture, the use of animal manures in farming, and the tyranny of man over brute nature; these abuses polluted his food. The ox must be taken from the plough and the horse from the cart, the hundred acres of the farm must be spaded, and the man must walk., wherever boats and locomotives will not carry him. Evell the insect world was to be defended-that bad been too long neglected, and a society for the protection of ground-worms, slugs and mosquitos was to be incorporated ~ithout delay. '~Vith these appeared the adepts of homreopathy, of hydropathy, of mesmerism, of phrenology. and their wonderful theories of the Christian miracles' Others assailed particular vocations, as that of the lawyer, thCit of the merchant, of the manufacturer, of the clergyman, of the scholar. Others attacked the institution of marriage as the fountain of social evils. Others devoted themselves to the worrying of churches and meetings for public worship; and the fertile forms of antinomianism among the elder puritans seemed to have their match in the plenty of the new harvest of reform. \'-ith this din of opinion and debate there ",-as a keener scrutiny of institutions and domestic life than any we had known; there was sincere protesting against existing evils, and there were changes of employrn.ent dictated by conscience. No doubt there was plentiful vaporing, and cases of backsliding might occur . But in each of these movements emerged a good result; a tendency to the adoption of simpler methods, and an assertion

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of the sufficiency of the private man. Thus it was directly in the spirit and genius of the age, what happened in one instance when a church censured and threatened to excommunicate one of its members on account of the somewhat hostile part to the church which his conscience led him to take in the anti-slavery business; the threatened individual immediately excommuni . . cated the church, in a public and formal process. This has been several times repeated: it was excellent when it \\""as done the first time, but of course loses all value ,,·hen it is copied. Every project in the history of reform J no matter how violent and surprising, is good when it is the dictate of a man's genius and constitution~ but very dull ~nd suspicious when adopted from another. It is right and beautfiul in any man to .say. ·I will take this coat~. or this book, or this measure of corn of vours'in whom we see the act to be original, and to flow from the whole spirit and faith of him; for then that taking ~rill have a giving as free and divine; but we are very easily disposed to resist the san1e generosity of speech when we miss originality and truth to character in it. There was in all the practical activities of New England for the last quarter of a century, a gradual withdrawal of tender consciences from the social organizations. There is observable throughout, the contest bet,veen mechanical and spiritual meth, ods, but with a steady tendency of the thoughtful and virtuous to a deeper belief and reliance on spiritual facts. In politics, for example, it is easy to see the progress of dissent. The country is full of rebellion; the country is full of k.ings. Hands offt let there be no control and no interference in the administration of the affairs of this kingdom of me . Hence the growth of the doctrine and of the party of Free Trade~ and the willingness to try that experiment, in the face of what appear incontestable facts. I confess, the motto of the Globe ne,,"spaper is so attractive to me that I can seldom find much appetite to read what is below it in its columns: "The world i5 governed too much." So the country is frequently affording soli.. tary examples of resistance to the government, solitary nullifiers, who throw themselves on their reserved rights; nay: who

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have reserved all their rights; who reply to the assessor and to the clerk of court that they do not know the State, and embarrass the courts of law by non-juring and the commanderin-chief of the militia by non-resistance. The same disposition to scrutiny and dissent appeared in civil, festive, neighborly, and domestic society. A restless, prying, conscientious criticism broke out in unexpected quarters. \\Tho gave me the money with which I bought my coat? Why should professional labor and that of the counting-house be paid so disproportionately to the labor of the porter and woodsaW\:,er? This whole business of Trade gives me to pause and .. think, as it constitutes false relations between men; inasmuch as I am prone to count myself relieved of any responsibility to beha\"e well and nobly to that person whom I pay with money; whereas if I had not that commodity, I should be put on my good behav'ior in all companies, and man would be a benefactor to man, as being himself his only certificate that he had a right 10 those aids and services which each asked of the other. Am I not too protected a person? is there not a wide disparity between the lot of me and the lot of thee, my poor brother, my poor sister? .Am I not defrauded of my best culture in the loss of those gymnastics which manual labor and the emergencies of poverty constitute? I find nothing healthful or exalting in the smooth conventions of society; I do not like the close air of saloons. I begin to suspect myself to be a prisoner, though treated with all this courtesy and IQ~ury. I pay a destructive tax in my conformity. The same insatiable criticism may be traced in the efforts for the reform of Education. The popular education has been ta.."ted with a want of truth and nature. It was complained that an education to things was not given. We are students of words: we are shut up in schools, and colleges, and recitation-rooms, for ten or fifteen years, and come out at last with a bag of wind, a memory of words, and do not know a thing. We cannot use our hands, or our legs, or our eyes, or our arms. We do not know an edible root in the woods, we cannot tell our course by the stars, nor the bour of the day by the sun. It is well if we

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can swim and skate. We are afraid of a horse, of a cow, of a dog, of a snake, of a spider. The Roman rule was to teach a boy nothing that he could not learn standing. The old English rule was, 'All summer in the field, and all winter in the study.' And it seenlS as if a man should learn to plant, or to fish, or to hunt, that he might secure his subsistence at all events, and not be painful to his friends and fellow-men. The lessons of science should be experimental also. The sight of a planet through a telescope is worth all the course on astronomy; the shock of the electric spark in the elbow, outvalues all the theories; the taste of the nitrous oxide, the firing of an artificial volcano, are better than velumes of chemistry. One of the traits of the new spirit is the inquisition it fixed on our scholastic devotion to the dead languages . The ancient languages, with great beauty of structure, contain wonderful remains 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 centuries ago), Latin and Greek had a strict relation to all the science and culture there was in Europe, and the 3\Iathematics had a momentary importance at some era of activity in physical science. These things became stereotyped as education, as the manner of men is. But the Good Spirit never cared for the colleges, and though all men and boys were now drilled in Latin, Greek and 1\Iathematics, it had quite left these shells nigh and dry on the beach, and was now creating and feeding other matters at other ends of the world. But in a hundred high schools and colleges this warfare against common.. sense still goes on. Four, or six, or ten years, the pupil is parsing Greek and Latin, and as soon as he leaves the University, as it is ludicrously styled, he shuts those books for the last time. Some thousands of young men are graduated at our colleges in this country every year, and the persons who, at forty years, still read Greek, can all be counted on your hand. I never met with ten. Four or five persons I have seen who read Plato. But is not this absurd, that the whole liberal talent of this

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country should be directed in its best years on studies vlhich lead to nothing? '\Vhat was the consequence? Some intelligent persons said or thought, 'Is that Greek and Latin some spell to conjure with, and not words of reason? If the physician, the lawyrer, the divine, never use it to come at their ends, I need never learn it to come at mine. Conjuring is gone out of fashion, and I will omit this conjugating, and go straight to affairs.! So they jumped the Greek and Latin, and read law, medicine, or sermons, without it. To the astonishment of all, the self-madE' men took even ground at once with the olde~t of the regular graduates, and in a few months the most conservative circles of Boston and New York had quite forgotten who of their gownsmen was college-bred, and who was not. One tendency appears alike in the philosophical speculation and in the rudest democratical movements, through all the petulance and all the puerility, the wish, namely, to cast aside the superfluous and arrive at short methods; urged, as I suppose, by an intuition that the human spirit is equal to all emergencies, alone, and that man is more often injured than helped by the means he uses. I conceive this gradual casting off of material aid~ and the indication of growing trust in the private self-supplied powers of the individual, to be the affirmative principle of the recent philosophy, and that it is feeling its own profound truth and is reaching forward at this very hour to the happiest conclusions. I readily concede that in this, as in every period of intellectual activity, there has been a noise of denial and protest; much was to be resisted, much was to be got rid of by those who were reared in the old, before they couId begin to affirm and to construct. 1Iany a reformer perishes in his removal of rubbish; and that makes the offensiveness of the class. They are partial; they are not equal to the work they pretend. They lose their way; in the assault on the kingdom of darkness they expend all their energy on some accidental evil, and lose their sat.rity and power of benefit . It is of little moment that one or two or twenty errors of our social system be corrected, but of much that the man be in his senses.

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The criticism and attack on institutions, which we have witnessed, has made one thing plain, that society gains nothing whilst a man, not himself renovated, attempts to renovate things around him: he has become tediously good in some particular but negligent or narrow in the rest; and hypocrisy and vanity a:e often the disgusting result. It is handsomer to remain in the establishment better than the establishment, and conduct that in the best manner, than to make a sally against evil by some single improvement, without 3upporting it by a total regeneration. Do not be so vain of your one objection. Do you think there is only one? _o\las! my good friend, there is no part of society or of life better than any other part. All our things are right and wrong together. The wave of evil washes all our institutions alike. Do .vau complain of our Marriage? Our marriage is no worse than our education, our diet, our trade, our social customs. Do you complain of the laws of Property? It is a pedantry to give such importance to them. Can we not play the game of life with these counters, as well as with those? in the institution of property, as well as out of it? Let into it the new and renewing principle of love, and property will be universality. No one gives the impressi9n of superiority to the institution, which he must give who will reform it. It makes no difference what you say, you must make me feel that you are aloof from it; by your natural and supernatural advantages do easily see to the end of itdo see how man can do without it. Now all men are on one side . No man deserves to be heard against property_ Only Love, only an Idea, is against property as we hold it. I cannot afford to be irritable and captious, nor to waste all my tinle in attacks. If I should go out of church whenever I hear a false sentiment I could never stay there five minutes. But why come out? the street is as false as the church, and when I get to my house, or to my manners, or to my speech, I have not got away from the lie. When we see an eager assailant of one of these wrongs, a special reformer, we feel like asking him, What right have you, sir, to your one virtue? Is virtue piecemeal? This is a jewel amidst the rags of a beggar.

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In another way the right will be vindicated. In the midst of abuses, in the heart of cities, in the aisles of false churches, alike in one place and in another-wherever, namely, a just and heroic soul finds itself, there it will do what is next at hand, and by the new quality of character it shall put forth it shall abrogate that old condition, law, or school in which it stands, before the law of its own mind . If partiality was one fault of the movement party, the other defect was their reliance on Association. Doubts such as those I have intimated drove many good persons to agitate the questions of social reform. But the revolt against the spirit of commerce, the spirit of aristocracy, and the inveterate abuses of cities, did not appear possible to individuals; and to do battle against numbers they armed themselves with numbers, and against concert they relied on new concert. Following or advancing beyond the ideas of St. Simon, of Fourier, and of Owen, three communities have already been formed in 11assachusetts on kindred plans, and many more in the country at large. They aim to give every member a share in the manual labor, to give an equal reward to labor and to talent.. and to unite a liberal culture with an education to labor . The scheme offers, by the economies of associated labor and expense, to make every member rich, on the same amount of property that, in separate families, would leave every member poor. These new associations are composed of men and women of superior talents and sentiments; yet it may easily be questioned whether such a community will draw, except in its beginnings, the able and the good; whether those who have energy will not prefer their chance of superiority and power in the world, to the humble certainties of the association; whether such a retreat does not promise to become an asylum to those who have tried and failed, rather than a field to the strong; and whether the members will not necessarily be fractions of men, 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. e.1:cellent; but remember that no society can ever be so large

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as one man. He, in his friendship, in his natural and momentary associations!, doubles or mUltiplies himself; but in the hour in which he mortgages himself to two or ten or twenty, be dwarfs himself bela,,'" the stature of one. But the men of less faith could not thus believe, and to such, concert appears the sole specific of strength. I have failed, and you have failed, but perhaps together we shall not fail. Our housekeeping is not satisfactory to us, but perhaps a phalanx, a community, might be . ~lany of us have differed in opinion, and we could find no man who could make the truth plain:- but possibly a college, or an ecclesiastical council, might. I have not been able either to persuade my brother or to preyail on myself to disuse the traffic or the potation of brandy, but perhaps a pledge of total abstinence might effectually restrain us. The candidate my party votes for is not to be trusted with a dollar, but he will be honest in the Senate, for we can bring public opinion to bear on him. Thus concert was the specific in all cases. But concert is neither better nor worse, neither more nor less potent, than individual force. All the men in the world cannot make a statue walk and speak, cannot make a drop of blood, or a blade of grass, any more than one man can. But let there be one man, let there be truth in two men, in ten men, then is concert for the first time p0ssible; because the force ,,~bich moves the world is a new quality, and can never be furnished by adding whatever quantities of a different killd. '\~at is the use of the concert of the false and the disunited? There can be no concert in two, where there is no concert in one. ,,7hen the individual is not individual, but is dual; when his thoughts look one way and his actions another; when his faith is traversed by his habits; when his will, enlightened by reason, is warped by his sense; when with one hand he rows and with the other backs water, what concert can be? I do not wonder at the interest these projects inspire. The world is awaking to the idea of union, and these experiments show what it is thinking of. It is and will be magic.. 1\Ien will live and communicate, and plough, and reap, and govern, as by added ethereal power, when once they are luUted; as in

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a celebrated experiment, by expiration and respiration exactly together, four persons lift a heavy man from the ground by the little finger only, and without sense of weight. But this union must be inward, and not one of covenants, and is to be reached by a reverse of the methods they use. The union is only perfect when all the uniters are isolated. It is the union of friends who live in different streets or towns. Each man, if he attempts to join himself to others, is on all sides cramped and diminished of his proportion; and the stricter the union the smaller and the more pitiful he is. But leave him alone, to recognize in every hour and place the secret soul; he will go up and down doing the works of a true member, and, to the astonishment of all, the work will be done with concert, though no man spoke. Government will be adamantine without any governor. The l.mion must be ideal in actual individualism. I pass to the indication in some particulars of that faith in man, which the heart is preaching to us in these days, and which ~ngages

the more regard, from the consideration that the speculations of one generation are the history of the next following. In alluding just now to our system of education, I spoke of the deadness of its details. But it is open to graver criticism than the palsy of its members: it is a system of despair. The disease with which the human mind now labors is want of faith. l\1en do not believe in a power of education. \Ve do not think we can speak to divine sentiments in man, and we do not try. We renounce all high aims. \Ve 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 lnan of good sense but of little faith, whose compassion seemed to lead him to church as often as he went there, said to me that "he liked to have concerts, and fairs, and churches, and other public amusements go on." I am afraid the remark is too honest: and comes from the same origin as the maxim of the tyrant, "If you would rule the world quietly, you must keep it amused.~) I notice too that the ground on which eminent public servants urge the claims of popular education is fear; 'This \~untry is filling up with thousands and millions of voters, and

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you must educate them to keep them from our throats.' \''-e do not believe that any education, any system of phi1osophy~ any influence of genius, will ever giYe depth of insight to a superficial mind. Having settled ourselves into this infidelity, our skill is e:\~ended to procure alleviations, diversion~ opiates. "'"e adorn the yictim vlith manual skill, his tongue with languages~ his bodY - with inoffensive and cornelV'. manners. So ha,'e we cunningly hid the tragedy of limitation and inner death we cannot avert. Is it strange that society should be de;Toured by a secret melancholy which breaks through all its smiles and all its gayety and games? But even one step farther our infidelity has gone. It appears that some doubt is felt by good and wise men whether really the happiness and probity of men is increased by the culture of the mind in those disciplines to which we give the name of education . Unhappily too the doubt comes from scholars, from persons who have tried these methods. In their experience the scholar was not raised by the sacred thoughts amongst which he dwelt, but used them to selfish ends. He was a profane person, and became a showman, turning his gifts to a marketable use, and not to his own sustenance and growth. It was found that the intellect could be independently developed, that is, in separation from the man, as any single organ can be io\rig.. orated, and the result was monstrous. _~ canine appetite for knowledge was generated, \vhich must still be fed but was never satisfied, and this knowledge, not being directed on action" never took the character of substantial, humane truth, blessing those whom it entered. It gave the scholar certain powers of expression, the power of speech, the power of poetry, of literary art, but it did not bring him to peace or to beneficence. ,\Vben the literary class betray a destitution of faith, it is not strange that society should be disheartened and sensualized by unbelief . "That remedy? Life must be lived on a higher plane. \Ve must go up to a higher platform, to which we are always invited to ascend~ there, the whole aspect of things changes. I resist the scepticism of our education and of our educated men. I do not believe that the differences of opinion and character

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In men are organic. I do not recognize, beside the class of the good and the wise, a permanent class of sceptics, or a class of conservatives, or of malignants, or of materialists. I do not be . . lieve in two classes. You remember the story of the poor woman who importuned King Philip of Macedon to grant her justice, which Philip refused: the woman exclaimed, "I appeal:" the king, astonished, asked to whom she appealed: the woman replied, "From Philip drunk to Philip sober." The text will suit me very well. I believe not in two classes of men, but in man in two moods, in Philip drunk and Philip sober. I think, according to the good-hearted word of Plato, HUnwillingly the soul is deprived of truth." Iron conservative, miser, or thief, no man is but by a supposed necessity which he tolerates by shortness ~r torpidity of sight. The soul lets no man go without some visitations and holidays of a diviner presence. It would be easy to show, by a narrow scanning of any man's biography, that we are not so wedded to our paltry performances of every kind but that every man has at intervals the grace to scorn his perform"" ances, in comparing them with his belief of what he should do; that he puts himself on the side of his enemies, listening gladly to what they say of him, and accusing hhnself of the same things. \Vbat is it men love in Genius, but its infinite hope, which degrades all it has done? Genius counts all its miracles poor and short. Its own idea is never executed. The Iliad, the Ham.. let, the Doric column, the Roman arch, the Gothic minster, the German anthem, when they are ended, the master casts behind him. How sinks the song in the waves of melody which the universe pours over his soul! Before that gracious Infinite out of which he drew these few strokes, how mean they look, though the praises of the world attend them. From the triumphs of his art he turns with desire to this greater defeat. Let those admire who will. \Vith silent joy he sees himself to be capable of a beauty that eclipses all which his hands have done; all which human hands have ever done. "Tell, we are all the children of genius, the children of virtueADd feel their inspirations in our happier hours.. Is not every

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man sometimes a radical in politics? ~ren are conserYatives when they are least vigorous. or when they are most lux-urious. They are conservatives after dinner, or before taking their rest: ,vhen they are sick, or aged. In the morning. or ""hen their intellect or their conscience has been aroused: when they hear music, or when they read poetry, they are radicals. In the circle of the rankest tories that could be collected in England, Old or New, let a powerful and stimulating intellect, a man of great heart and mind act on them, and very quickly these frozen conservators will :rie1d to the friendly infiuence these hopeless will begin to hope, these haters "ill begin to love, these immov.. able statues will begin to spin and revolye. I cannot help recall . ing the fine anecdote which "Tarton relates of Bishop Berkeley, when he was preparing to leave England with his plan of planting the gospel among the American savages. '~Lord Bathurst told me that the members of the Scriblerus Club being met at his house at dinner, they agreed to rally Berkeley, who was also his guest, on his scheme at Bermudas. Berkeley, haying listened to the many lively things they had to say, begged to be heard in his turn, and displayed his plan with such an astonishing and animating force of eloquence and enthusiasm that they were struck dumb, and, after some pause, rose up all together v."ith earnestness, exclaiming, 'Let us set out with him immediately.' " l\Ien in all ways are better than they seem. 'They like flattery for the moment, but they know the truth for their own. It is a foolish cowardice which keeps us from trusting them and speak... ing to them rude truth. They resent your honesty for an instant, they will thank. you for it always. \\~hat is it we heartily wish of each other? Is it to be pleased and flattered? 2\0, but to be convicted and exposed, to be shamed out of our nonsense of all kinds, and made men of, instead of ghosts and phantoms. \Ve are weary of gliding ghostlike through the world, which is itself so slight and unreaL ,Ve crave a sense of reality, though it comes in strokes of pain. I explain so-by this man-like love of truththose excesses and errors into which souls of great vigor, but not equal insight, often fall. They feel the poverty at the bottom of all the seeming affluence of the world. They know the speed 1

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with which they come straight through the thin masquerade, and conceive a disgust at the indigence of nature: Rousseau, 11irabeau, Charles Fox, Napoleon, Byron-and I could easHy add names nearer home, of raging riders, who drive their steeds so hard, in the violence of living to forget its illusion: they would know the worst, and tread the floors of hell. The heroes of ancient and modern fame, Cimon, Themistocles, Alcibiades, Alexander, Cresar, have treated life and fortune as a game to be well and skilfully played, but the stake not to be so valued but that any time it could be held as a trifle light as air, and thrown up. Cresar, just before the battle of Pharsalia, discourses with the Egyptian priest concerning the fountains of the Nile, and offers to quit the army, the empire, and Cleopatra, if he will show him those mysterious sources The same magnanimity shows itself in our social relations, in the preference, namely, which each man gives to the society of s:zperiors over that of his equals. All that a man has will he give for right relations with his mates. All that he has will he give for an erect demeanor in every company and on each occasion. He aims at such things as his neighbors prize, and gives his days and nights, his talents and his heart, to strike a good stroke, to acquit himself in all men's sight as a man. The consideration of an eminent citizen, of a noted merchant, of a man of mark in his profession; a naval and military honor, a gen~rars commission, a marshal's baton, a ducal coronet, the laurel -of poets, and, anyhow procured, the acknowledgment of eminent merit-have this lustre for each candidate that they enable him to walk erect and unashamed in the presence of some persons before whom he felt himself inferior. Having raised himself to this rank, having established his equality with class after class of those with whom he would live well, he still finds certain others before whom he cannot possess himself, because they have somewhat fairer, somewhat grander, somewhat purer, which extorts homage of him. Is his ambition pure? then will his laurels and his possessions seem worthless: instead of avoiding these men who make his fine gold dim, he will cast all behind him and seek their society only, woo and embrace this his hu-

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miliation and mortification, until be shall know why his eye sinks, his voice is husky, and his brilliant talents are paralyzed in this presence. He is sure that the soul ,,-hich giYes the lie to all things will tell none. His constitution will not mislead him. If it cannot carry itself as it ought~ high and unmatchable in the presence of any man; if the secret oracles whose whisper makes the sweetness and dignity of his life do here withdraw and accompany him no longer-it is time to umderyalue ..vilat he has Yalued, to dispossess himself of "'''hat he has ac~ J.ired, and with Cresar to take in his hand the army, the effi!,)ire and Cleopatra, and say, "All these will I relinquish, if YOll will show me the fountains of the Nile." Dear to us are those who love us; the swift moments we spend with them are a compensation for a great deal of misery~ they enlarge our life; but dearer are those who reject us as unworthy, for they add another life: they build a heaven before us whereof we had not dreamed, and thereby supply to us new powers out of the recr.:sses of the spirit, and urge us to new and unattempted perfoflnances. As every man at heart wishes the be~ c. a.nd not inferior society, wishes to be convicted of his error ar..d to come to hirnself-so be wishes that the same healing should not stop in :ris thought, but should penetrate bis will or active power. Tbe selfish man suffers more from his selfishness than he from whom that selfish.. ness withholds some important benefit. '~Vhat be most wishes is to be lifted to some higher platform, that he may see beyond his present fear the transalpine good, so that his fear, his coldness, his custom may be broken up like fragments of ice, melted and carried away in the great stream of good will. Do you ask my aid? I also wish to be a benefactor. I wish more to be a benefactor and servant than you wish to be served by me~ and surely the greatest good fortune that could befall me is precisely to be so moved by you that I should say, 'Take me and all mine, and use me and mine freely to your ends! ' for I could not say it otherwise than because a great enlargement had come to my heart and mind, which made me superior to my fortunes . Here we are -paralyzed with fear; we hold on to our little properties, house and land, office and money, for the bread which

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they have in our experience yielded us, although we confess that our being does not flow through them. \Ve desire to be made great; we desire to be touched with that fire which shall command this ice to stream, and make our existence a benefit. If therefore we start objections to your project, 0 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. ,~V·e wish to hear ourselves confuted. We are haunted with a belief that you have a secret which it would highliest advantage us to learn, and we would force you to impart it to us, though it should bring us to prison or to worse extremity. Nothing shall warp me from the belief that every man is a lover of truth. There is no pure lie, no pure malignity in nature . The entertainment of the proposition of depravity is the last profligacy and profanation. There is no 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 neighbor have kept it a dead letter. I remember standing at the polls one day when the anger of the political contest gave a certain grimness to the faces of the independent electors, and a good man at my side, looking on the people, remarked, "1 am satisfied that the largest part of these men, on either side, mean to vote right." I suppose considerate observers, looking at the masses of men in their blameless and in their equivocal actions, will assent, that in spite of selfishness and frivolity, the general purpose in the great number of persons is fidelity. The reason why anyone refuses his assent to your opinion, or his aid to. your benevolent design, is in you: he refuses to accept you as a bringer of truth, because though you think. you have it, he feels that you have it not. \"'ou have not given him the authentic sign. If it \vere Vt'l'orth while to run into details this general doctrine of the latent but ever soliciting Spirit, it would be easy to adduce illustration in particulars of a man's equality to the Church, of his equality to the State, and of his equality to every other man. It is yet in all men's memory that, a few years ago, the liberal churches complained that th~ Calvinistic church denied

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to them the name of Christian. I think the complaint was con~ fession: a religious church would not complain. ...-\. religious man, like Behmen, Fox, or S\vedenborg, is not irritated by \vanting the sanction of the Church~ but the Church ieels the accusation of his presence and belief. It only needs that a just man should walk in OUt streets to make it appear how pitiful and inartificial a contrivance is our legislation. The man "hose part is taken and who does not wait for society in anything, has a po\ver which society cannot choose but feeL The familiar experiment called the hydrostatic para.. dox, in which a capillary column of water balances the ocean, is a symbol of the relation of one man to the whole family of men. The wise Dandamis, on hearing the liYes of Socrates, Pythagoras a.nd Diogenes read, ~'judged them to be great men every way, excepting that they were too much subjected to the reverence of the laws, which to second and authorize, true virtue must abatE. very much of its original vigor." And as a man is equal to the Church and equal to the State, so be is equal to every other man. The disparities of power in men are superficial; and all frank and searching conversation, in which a man lays himself open to his brother, apprises each of their radical unity. ""'hen two persons sit and converse in a thoroughly good understanding, the remark is sure to be made, See how we have disputed about "rards! Let a clear, apprehensive mind, such as every man knows among his friends, converse with the most comn1anding poetic genius, I think it would appear that there was no inequality such as men fancy, between them; that a perfect understanding, a like receiving, a like perceiving, abolished differences; and the poet would confess that his creative imagination ga\"e him no deep advantage, but only the superficial one that he could express himself and the other could not; that his advantage was a knack, which might impose on indolent men but could not impose on lovers of truth; for they know the tax of talent, or what a price of greatness the power 'Jf expression too often pays. I believe it is the conviction of the purest men that the net amount of man and man does not much vary. Each is incomparably superior to his companion

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in some facuI ty. His want of skill in other directions has added to his fitness for his own work. Each seems to have some compensation yielded to him by his infirmity, and every hinderance operates as a concentration of his force. These and the like experiences intimate that man stands in strict connection with a higher fact never yet manifested. There is power over and behind us, and we are the channels of its com.. munications. "ie seek to say thus and so, and over our head some spirit sits which contradicts what we say. We would per.. suade our fellow to this or that; another self within our eyes dissuades him. That which we keep back, this reveals. In vain we compose our faces and our words; it holds uncontrollable communication with the enemy, and he answers civilly to us; but believes the spirit. "V\T e exclaim, 'There's a traitor in the house!' but at last it appears that he is the true man, and I am the traitor. This open channel to the highest life is the first and last reality, so subtle, so quiet, yet so tenacious, that although I have never expressed the truth, and although I have never heard the expression of it from any other, I know that the whole truth is here for me. ,,;rhat if I cannot answer your questions? I am not pained that I cannot frame a reply to the question, \Vbat is the operation "i"e call Providence? There lies the unspoken thing, present, omnipresent. Every time we converse we seek to translate it into speech, but whether we hit or whether we miss, we have the fact. Every discourse is an approximate answer = but it is of small consequence that we do not get it into verbs and nouns, whilst it abides for contemplation forever. If the auguries of the prophesying heart shall make themselves good in time, the man who shall be born, whose advent men and events prepare and foreshow, is one who shall enjoy his connection with a higher life, with the man within man; shall destroy distrust by his trust, shall use his native but forgotten methods, shall not take counsel of flesh and blood, but shall rely on the Law alive and beautiful which works over our heads and under our feet. Pitiless, it avails itself of our success when we obey it, and of our ruin when we contravene it. l\1en are all secret believers in it, else the word justice would have

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no meaning: they believe that the best is the true ~ that right is done at last; or chaos ,,"ould come. It re\yards actions after their nature~ and not after the design of the agent. \V'ork,' it saith to nlan, "in e\"ery hour, paid or unpaid. see only that thou work, and thou canst not escape the re\vard: whether thy work be fine or coarse~ planting corn or writing epics, so only it be honest ,,"ork, done to thine o\vn approbation~ it shall earn a reward to the senses as ,,"ell as to the thought: no matter how often defeated, you are born to victory. The reward of a thing well done, is to baye done it.) As soon as a man is wonted to look beyond surfaces, and to see how this high will prevails without an exception or an interyal. he settles himself into serenity. can. already' .He, . relv.... on the laws of gravity, that eyery stone fall where it is due; the good globe is faithful, and carries us securely through the celestial spaces, an.."{ious or resigned, we need not interfere to help it on: and he willleam one day the mild lesson they teach, that our own orbit is all our task, and we need not assist the administration of the universe. Do not be so impatient to set the town right concerning the unfounded pretensionF. and the false reputation of certain men (if standing. They are laboring harder to set the to"rn right concerning themselves, and will certainly succeed. Suppress for a few days your criticism on the insufficiency of this or that teacher or e~"perimenter, and he will have denlonstrated his insufficiency to all men's eyes. In like manner, let a man fall into the divine circuits, and he is enlarged. Obedience to his genius is the only liberating influence. \""e wish to escape from subjection and a sense of inferiority, and we make selfdenying ordinances, we drink water, we eat grass, we refuse the laws, we go to jail: it is all in vain; only by obedience to his genius, only by the freest activity in the way constitutional to him, does an angel seem to arise before a man and lead hinl by the hand out of all the wards of the prison. That which befits us, embosorned in beauty and wonder as we are, is cheerfulness and courage, and the endeavor to realize our aspirations. The life of man is the true romance, which when it is valiantly conducted will yield the imagination a higher 10

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joy than any fiction. All around us what powers are wrapped up under the coarse mattings of custom, and all wonder prevented. It is so wonderful to our neurologists that a man can see without his eyes, that it does not occur to them that it is just as wonderful that he should see with them; and that is ever the difference between the wise and the unwise: the latter wonders at what is unusual, the wise man wonders at the usual. Shall not the heart which has received so murb, trust the Power by which it lives? l\1:ay it not quit other leadings, and listen to the Soul that has guided it so gently and taught it so much, secure that the future wiU be worthy of the past?

PLATO; OR, THE PHILOSOPHER [This essay, like tlte one that jollou.'s it, is fro111 Representative :\len, which was published in I850~ The chapters in that book u'ere originally git1en as a series of lectures i12 Boston in 1845-46, and 'U)e,.e delivered before the .1.11 allchester A thenaeUl1l in England in I847-48. The chapters not included in this volu11ze are." "Uses of Great ]Ien," "Swedenborg; or, The ]jlystic," "lllontaigne; or, The Skeptic," "Slzakspeare; or~ Tlze Poet," a1zd "Goethe; or, The IT''riter."]

PLATO; OR, THE PHILOSOPHER 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 'Ll),e fountain-head of literatures. A discipline it is in logic, arithmetic, taste, symmetry, poetry, language, rhetoric, ontology, morals or practical wisdom. There ,vas never such range of speculation. Out of Plato come all things that are still "~ritten 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 twentv-two hun· dred 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, Swe..· denborg, 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 11len-Platonists! the Alexandrians, a constellation of genius; the Elizabethans, not less; Sir Thomas l\·lore, Henry l\Iore, John Hales, John Smith, Lord Bacon, Jeremy Taylor, Ralph Cudworth, Sydenham, Thomas Taylor; 1Iarcilius Ficinus and Picus l\Iirandola. Calvinism is in his Pha'do: Christianity is in it. 1lahometanism draws AMONG

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all its philosophy, in its hand-book of morals, the Akhlak-yJalaly, from him. l\lysticism 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, Shakspeare. 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 mas.. ter and what is only of his school. Plato, too, like every great man, consumed his own times. ,'Vhat 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. \Vhat 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. "~en 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, Timreus, Heraclitus, Parmenides, and what else; then his master, Socrates; and finding himself still capable of a larger synthesis--

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beyond all example then or since-he travelled into Italy, to gain what Pythagoras had for him~ then into Egypt, and perhaps still farther East, to import the other element, which Europe ,,"'anted, 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 nlust 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 ,,"ell, must come to it from a higher ground . .J.~ 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 eA-pression) , nlainly is not a poet because be 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 bouse and street life was trivial and commonplace. If you would know their tastes and complexions, the most admir.. ing 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 philosopber converts the value of all his fortunes into his intellectual performances. He was born 427 B. 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 1 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 l\iegara, accepted the invitations of Dian and of Dionysius to the court of Sicily, and went thither three times:" though very. capriciously treated. He travelled into Italy; then into Egy'"Pt, 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 th~ 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

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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 table-talk and househoid 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 im.. possible 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 bas spread itself since into a hundred histories, but has added no new element. This perpetual nl~dernness 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 th.us to be Europe, and philosophy, and almost literature, is the problem 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 vehementlyand 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 e:\1J1ain 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

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met with anyone 'Who comprehends me:' and they sigh and weep~ '\vrite verses and walk alone-fault of power to express their precise meaning. In a month or two~ through the fa\·or 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 eyer thus. The prog.. ress is to accuracy, to skill~ to truth, from blind force. There is a moment in the history of every nation~ when, pro-ceeding out of this brute youth, the perceptiYe 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 b~l· his eves and brain with solar and stellar creation. That is the mo"' ment of adult health, the culmination of power. Such is the history of Europe, in all points; and such in philos. ophy. 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 'Vise 1\fasters, 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 ..AII mL'"{ with these causes mytho~ logic pictures. _o\t last comes Plato, the distributor~ who needs , no barbaric paint, 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. I. Unity, or Identity; and, 2. \rariety. 'Ve unite all things by perceiving the law which pervades them; by perceiv'ing the superficial differences and the profound resemblances. But every mental act-this very perception of identity or oneness, recognizes th~ tiifference of things. Oneness and otherness. It is impossible to speak or to think. without embracing both.

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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 vVest, 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 goodas in the surfaces and extremities of matter. In all nations there are minds which incline to dwell in the ~onception of the fundamental Unity. The raptures of prayer and ecstasy of devotion lose all being in one Being. This tendency finds its highest eAlJression 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. l\Ien contemplate distinctions, because they are stupefied with ignorance /' "The words I and mine constitute ignorance. \\That 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, unCOD-

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nected with unrealities, with name" species and the rest, i.n timf 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. \Yhen 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 \ "'ishnu, 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 dW'elling in anyone place; nor art thou. thou; nor are otbers, others; nor am I, I." As if he had said, ':.A.11 is for the soul, and the soul is \Tishnu; and animals and stars are transient paintings; and light is whitewash; and durations are deceptiye ~ and form is imprisonment; and heaven itself a decoy.' That whicb the soul seeks is resolution into being above form, out of Tar'" tarus and out of heaven-liberation from nature. If speculation tends thus to a terrific unity, in which all things are absorbed, action tends directly back,,"ards to diversity . The first is the course or graYitation 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 reap. . pear 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 t.bJ

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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 pra~tice 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 infin.. ity, 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 e..~cess. They saw before them no sinister political economy; no ominous !\.1althus; 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 \rersailles, 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 . ~Ieantime~ 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

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the . "'-siatic . 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 .A.sia are in his brain. 2\Ietaphysics and natural philosophy expressed the genius of Europe; he substructs the religion of .A.sia, 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 thev .. 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 it..) 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, horsedoctors, butchers and fishmongers. He cannot forgive in himself a partiality, but is resolved tba t the two poles of thought shall appear in his statement. His argument and his sentence are self... poised 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 thG approach and at the departnre of a friend; the experience of

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poetic creativeness, which is not found in staying at home, nor yet in travelling, but in transitions from one to the other, which must therefore be adroitly managed to present as much transi. tional 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 sbject or symbol. Plato keeps the two vases, one of rether 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. \V'hosoever, taught by wise men, shall admit this as the prime cause of the origin and foundation of the world, will be in the truth." "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 . ""'here 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 imaginaton 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

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irony so subtle that it stings and paralyzes, adorn the soundest health and strength of frame. .~ccording to the old sentence "If Jove should descend to the earth, he would speak. in the style of Plato.~' \\"Pith this palatial air there is~ for the direct aim oi several of his works and running through the tenor of them ali, a certain earnestness, which mounts, in the Republic and in the Ph~do, to piety. He has been charged with feigning sickness at the time of the death of Socrates. But the anecdotes that have come dovm 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 ulany of his pieces, expresses a personal exasperation. He has a probity, a native reverence for justice and honor, and a humanity ,,"hich makes him tender for the superstitions of the people. ...~dd 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 s,,~eeps the dim regions, visits worlds which flesh cannot enter: be 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 circumspection never forsook him. One would say he h.a~ read the inscription on the gates of Busyrane--"Be bold; n and on the second gate-'~Be bold, be bold, and everymore be bold;" and then again had paused well at the third gate-4~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 mastel . He bas that opulence which furnishes, at every turn . the precise-: weapon he needs ..A.s the rich man wears no more garments, drives j

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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 \yhich 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 is good philosophy; and his finding that word "cookery," and '~adulatory art," for rhetoric, in the Gorgias, does us as a substantial service still. No orator ~ measure in effect with him who can give good nicknames. \\That 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 anyone 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. 'Vberefore, 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 tum invite to this contest, which, I affirm, surpasses all con...

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tests here." 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 rea ... IOn, as all the philosophic and poetic class have: but he has

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also v;hat they baye not-this strong solving sense to reconcile his poetry \yith the appearances of the world, and build a bridge from the streets of cities to the ,.:\tlantis. 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 eves 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 . -\sia . 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, re.. freshed and empowered by this worship, the instinct of Europe, namely, culture, returns; and he cries, 'Yet things are know. able! ' They are knowable, because being from one, things corre~ spond. There is a scale; and the correspondence of heaven ta ea,rth, 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 quanti.. ties, 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.." of

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"The essence or peculiarity of man is to comprehend a whole; or that which in the diversity of sensatiQns can be comprised under a rational unity." "The soul which has never perceived the truth, cannot pass into the human form." 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 law-giver is before the law-receiver. I give you joy, 0 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 dremon to that which is truly his own. This also is the essence of justice-to attend every one bis 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 t() 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 philosopby 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 truth. . ful performance; above all in the splendors of genius and intel.. lectual achievement. "The whole of life, 0 Socrates," said Glauco, "is, with the wise, the measure of hearing such discourses as these.:" ''-'''bat a price he sets on the feats of talent, on the powers of Pericles, of Isocrates, of Parmenidesl What price above price on the talents themselves! He called the several faculties, gods, in his beautiful personation. What value he gives

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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 Timreus he indicates the highest employment of the eves. .. '~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 per· ceived 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 infonning 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. '"J\Ien 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,

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nor can those be benefited by associating with me whom the Dremon opposes; so that it is not possible for me to live with these. \\rith many however he does not prevent me from convers.. ing, who yet are not at all benefited by associating with me. Such, 0 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 iBterCQUrse 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 edu.. cate, 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 homagehomage 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 sym.. bolical; 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 repre-

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sent the bright part and the dark part of each of these worlds. 1'"ou will have, for one of the sections of the ,~isible world, images, that is, both shadov,-s and reflections-for the other section, the objects of these images, that is, plants~ animals, and the works of art and nature. Then di\ide the intelligible world in like manner; the one section will be of opinions and hypotheses, and the other section of truths." To these four sections, the four operations of the soul correspond-conjecture, faith~ understand.. ing, reason .....\.5 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 minion channels for his activity. All things mount and mount. All his thought has this ascension; in Phredrus. teaching that beauty is the most lovely of all things, exciting hilarity and shed·, ding 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. 'V'hen an artificer•. he says, in the fabrication of any work, looks to that which always subsists according to tlte sa1JZe; and, employing a model of this kind, expresses its idea and po,,"'er in his work-it must follow that his production should be beautiful. But when be 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 minsl, 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 whieh h~ has established ~

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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 conver.. sation. 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 J to begin new dialogues with somebody that is sober . In short, he was what our countrypeople call an ()ld 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 my other place. He was plain as a Quaker in habit and speech, affected low phrases, and illustrations from cocks 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 WaP.

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with Breotia, 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 go\"ernment~ \\"hen one day he chanced to hold a seat there, e\·inced a courage in opposmg 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 iriends. His necessary expenses were exceedingly small, and no one could liye as he did. He wore no under garment ~ his upper garment was the same for summer and winter:o and he ~vent barefooted; and it is said that to procure the pleasure, which he loves, of talking at his ease all day '\vith 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 ~d brings down all the fine speakers, all the fine philosophers of . l\Iinor and the Athens, whether natives or strangers from . -\sia islands. Nobody can refuse to talk ,yith 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 ","hen 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 \Yariest 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 tc terrible choices by his dilemmas: and tosses the Hippiases and Gorgiases with their grand reputations, as a boy tosses his balls. The tyrannous realist!-1\leno 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

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it is-this cramp-fish of a Sacra tes 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 be was there. erito 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 lnartyr, the keen street and market debater with the sweetest saint known to any history at that tinle, 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 de·, rived again their principal advantage from the perfect art of Plato. It remains to say that the defect of Plato in power is only that lVhich results inevitably from his quality. He is intellectual in his aim; and therefore, in expression, literary. Mounting into

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heaven, diying into the pit, expounding the laws of the state, the t>assion of love;- the remorse of crime, the hope of the parting soul-he is literarv. .. , and never otherwise. It is almost the sole deduction from the nlerit of Plato that his writings have notwhat is no doubt incident to this regnancy of intellect in ris work-the yital authority which the screams of prophets and the sermons of unlettered .:\rabs 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 ,,"ave is quickly lost in the sea . Plato would willingly ba\"e 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 :rou 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 tbis 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

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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. 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 be remains unapproachedI A chief structure of human wit, like Kamac, or the medireval 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, QI the common sense, or arithmetic, we speak as boys, and much t1f 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

publication, in 1fr. Bohn's "Serial Library," of the excellent translations of Plato, which we esteem one of the chief benefits the cheap press has yielded, gives us an occasion to take hastily a few more notes of the elevation and bearings of this fixed star; or to add a bulletin, like the journals, of Plato Jlt the latest dates.

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l\Iodern science, by the extent of its generalization, has learned to indemnify the student of man for the defects of indi\iduals by tracing growth and ascent in races; and, by the simple expe .. client of lighting up the vast background, generates a feeling of complacency and hope. The human being has the saurian and the plant in his rear. His arts and sciences~ the easy issue of his brain, look glorious when prospectively beheld from the distant brain of ox, crocodile and fish. It seems as if nature, in regarding the geologic night behind her, when, in fiye or si.."{ millen· niums, she had turned out five or sL~ men, as Homer, Phidias, ~Ienu and Columbus, was no wise discontented with the result. These samples attested the virtue of the tree. These were a clear amelioration of trilobite and saurus, and a good basis for fur .. ther proceeding. \\Tith this artist, time and space are cheap~ and she is insensible to what you say of tedious preparation.. She waited tranquilly the flowing periods of paleontology) tor the hour to be struck when man should arrive. Then perinds must pass before the motion of the earth can be suspected; then before the map of the instincts and the cultivable powers can he draml. But as of races, so the succession of individual men is fatal and beautiful, and Plato has the fortune in the history of mankind to mark an epoch. Plato's fame does not stand on a syllogism, or on any master... pieces 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 a peculiar 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 naturalist 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 measur ing the angles of an acre. But the Republic of Plato, by these expansions, may be said 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 anoouncing them, 4

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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. These expansions 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. His 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 a.n allegory on the education of the private soul; his beautiful definitions of ideas, of time, of form, of figure, of the line, sometimes hypothetically given, as his defining of virtue, courage, justice, temperance; his love of the apologue, and I tis apologues themselves; the cave of Trophonius; the ring of , ;yges; the charioteer and two 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 his boniform soul; his doctrine of assimilation; his doctrine of reminiscence; 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' belief that the laws below are sisters of the laws above. ~Iore striking examples are his moral conclusions. Plato affirms the coincidence of science and virtue; for vice can never know itself and virtue, but virtue knows both itself and vice. The eye 9.ttested that justice was best, as long as it was profitable; Plato affirms that it is profitable throughout; that the profit is intrinsic, though the just conceal his justice from gods and men; that it is better to suffer iniustice than to do it; that the sinner ought

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to covet punishment; that the lie was more hurtiul than homicide; and that ignorance. or the involuntary lie. was more calamitous than involuntary homicide: that the soul is unwillingly deprived of true opinions, and that no man sins ""illingly: that the order or proceeding of nature was from the n1ind to the body, and, though a sound body cannot restore an unsound mind~ yet a good soul can, by its virtue, render the body the best possible . The intelligent have a right o\·er the ignorant nalnely~ the right of instructing them. The right punishment of one out of tune is to make him play in tune; the fine ,,·hich the good" refusing to govern, ought to pay, is, to be governed by a ,,""orse man: that his guards shall not handle gold and silver: but shall be instructed that there is gold and silver in their souls, which will nlake men willing to give them every thing which they need. This second sight explains the stress laid on geometry. He saw that the globe of earth was not more la'W'iul and precise than was the supersensible; that a celestial geometry was in place there, as a logic of lines and angles here below; that the world was throughout mathematical; the proportions are constant of oxygen, azote and lime; there is just so much water and slate and magnesia; not less are the proportions constant oi the moral elements. This eldest Goethe, hating varnish and falsehood~ delighted in revealing the real at the base of the accidental; in discovering connection, continuity and representation eYery"'Where, hating insulation; and appears like the god of wealth among the cabins of vagabonds, opening power and capability in everything he touches . Ethical science was new and vacant ""hen Plato could write thus: "Of all whose arguments are left to the men of the present time, no one has ever yet condemned injustice, or praised justice, otherwise than as respects the repute, honors and emoluments arising therefrom; while, as respects either of them in itself, and subsisting by its own power in the soul of the pos.. sessar, and concealed both from gods and men, no one has yet sufficiently investigated, either in poetry or prose writings-how, namely, that injustice is the greatest of all the evils that the soul has within it, and justice the greatest good."

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His definition of ideas, as what is simple, permanent, uniform and self-existent, forever discriminating them from the notions of 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 the centrality and the evanescence of things. Plato is so centred that he can well spare all his dogmas. Thus the fact of knowledge and ideas reveals to him the fact of eternity; and the doctrine of reminiscence he offers as the most probable particular explication. Call that fanciful-it matters not: the connection between our knowledge and the abyss of being is still 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 have symmetry in his tablet. He put in all the past, without weariness, and descended into detail with a courage like that he witnessed in nature . One would say that his forerunners had mapped out each a farm or a district or an island, in intellectual 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 circles in the rational soul. There is no lawless particle, and there is nothing casual in the action of the human mind. The names of things, too, are fatal, folloviing the nature of things ....'£\.11 the gods of the Pantheon are, by their names, significant of a profound sense. The gods are the ideas. Pan is speech, or manifestation; Saturn, the contemplative ; Jove, the regal soul~ and l\Iars, passion. Venus is proportion; Calliope, the soul of the world; . ~glaia, . intellectual illustration. These thoughts, in sparkles of light, had appeared often to pious and to poetic souls ~ but this well-bred, all. knowing Greek geometer comes with command, gathers them all up into rank and gradation, the Euclid of holiness, and marries the two parts of nature. Before all men~ he saw the intellectual values of the moral sentiment . He describes his own idea1 1 when he paints, in Timreus, a god leading things from disorder into order. He kindled a fire so truly in the centre that we see the sphere illu-

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minated, and can distinguish poles, equator and lines of latitude, every arc and node: a theory so a\"eraged~ so modulated, that you l\"ould say the "rinds of ages had swept through this rhythmic structure, and not that it was the brief extempore blotting of one short-lived scribe. Hence it has happened that a yery well-marked class of 50uls.~ namely those who delight in giving a spiritual, that is, an ethico-intellectual expression to every truth~ by exhibiting an ulterior end which is yet legitimate to it-are said to Platonize. Thus, :\Iichael.~gelo is a Platonist in his sonnets: Shakspeare is a Platonist when he writesUNature is made better by no mean, But nature makes that mean,"

or'~He~

that can endure To follow ,,"ith 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 't is the magnitude only' of Shakspeare ~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. The secret of his popular success is the moral aim '\vhich endeared him to mankind . "Intellect," he said, "is king of heaven and of earth ~ " but in Plato, intellect is always moral. His writings have also the sempiternal youth of poetry. For their arguments, most of them, might have been couched in sonnets: and poetry has never soared higher than in the Timreus and the Phredrus. _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 colors, his thought. Y'"au 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 of women), as the premium which he would set on grandeurt: There

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shall be exempts of two kinds: first, those who by demerit have put themselves below protection-outlaws; and secondly, those who by eminence of nature and desert are out of the reach of your rewards. Let such be free of the city and above the law. We confide them to themselves; let them do with us as they will. Let none presume to measure the irregularities of Michael Angelo and Socrates by village scales. In his eighth book of the Republic, he throws a little mathematicai dust in our eyes. I am sorry to see him, after such noble superiorities, permitting the lie to governors. Plato plays Provi- . dence a little with the baser sort, as people allow themselves with their dogs and cats. I

NAPOLEON; OR, THE l\IAN OF THE WORLD '

N.\POLEOX; OR, THE OF THE \\70RLD

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the eminent persons of the nineteenth century~ Ronaparte is far the best kno~vn and the most powerful: and owes his predominance to the fidelity with which he expresses the tone of thought and belief ~ the aims of the masses of active and cultivated men. It is SVlI'"edenbori's theor\"' that e,·ery organ is made up of homogeneous particles: or as it is sometimes expressed, e\~ery whole is made of similars~ that is~ the lungs are composed of infinitely small lungs ; the li,'Per, of in.ft~tely small livers; the kidney, of little kidneys, etc. Following this analogy, if any man is found to carry "'"'i th him the power and affections of vast numbers, if Napoleon is France. if Napoleon is Europe. jt is because the people whom he s'\vays are little X apoleons .. In our society there is a standing antagonism between the conservatiYe and the democratic classes ~ between those 'Who have made their fortune~, and the young and the poor who have for .. tunes to make.; bet\yeen the interests of dead labor-that iS the labor of hands long ago still in the grave~ \yhich labor is now entombed in money stocks, or in land aad buildings owned by idle capitalists-and the interests of living labor . '\vhich seeks to possess itself of land and buildings and money stocks. The first class is timid, selfish, illiberal, hating innovation, and continually losing numbers by death. The second class is selfish also, encroaching, bold, self-relying, always outnumbering the other and recruiting its numbers every hour by births. It desires to keep open every avenue to the competition of all, and to mUltiply avenues: the class of business men in America, in England~ in France and throughout Europe~ the class of industry and skill. Napoleon is its representative. The instinct of active, bra,\Te, able meo, throughout the middle class every where, has pointed out Napoleon as the incarnate Democrat. He had their virtues and AlIONG

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tb.eir vices; above all, he bad their spirit or aim. That tendent-;" is material, pointing at a sensual success and employing the richest and most various means to that end; conversant with mechanical powers, highly intellectual, widely and accurately learned and skilful, but subordinating all intellectual and spiritual forces into means to a material success. To be the rich man, is the end. "God has granted," says the Koran, "to every people a prophet in its own tongue." Paris and London and New York, the spirit of commerce, of money and material power, were also to have their prophet; and Bonaparte was qualified and sent. Everyone of the million readers of anecdotes or memoirs or lives of Napoleon, delights in the page, because he studies in it his own history. Napoleon is thoroughly modern, and, at the highest point of his fortunes, has the very spirit of the newspapers. He is no sain1.-to use his own "Tord, "no capuchin," and he is no hero, in the high sense. The man in the street finds in him the qualities and powers of other men in the street. He finds bim, like himself, by birth a citizen, who, by very intelligible merits, arrived at such a commanding position that he could indulge all those tastes which the common man possesses but is obliged to conceal and deny:, good so~iety, 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 persons about him, the refined enjoyments of pictures, statues, music, palaces and conventional honorsprecisely what is agreeable to 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 to the 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, every good word that was spoken 'in France. Dumont relates that he sat in the gallery of the Convention and heard l\.1irabeau make a speech. It struck Dumont that he could fit it with a peroration, which he wrote in pencil immediately, and showed it to Lord Elgin, who sat by him. Lord Elgin approved it, and Dumont, in the

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evening, showed it to :\Iirabeau. :\Iirabeau read it~ pronounced it admirable, and declared he ,\yould inco!"porate it into his harangue to-morrow, to the .-\ssembly. ··It is in1possible:' said Dumont, '~as, unfortunately, I have sbo\vn it to Lord Elgin.'" ':1£ you have shown it to Lord Elgin and to fifty persons beside, I shall still speak it to-morrow:" and he did speak it ,vith much effect, at the next day's session. For ~lirabeau, "ith his over... powering personality~ felt that these things which his presence inspired ,\yere as much his o\,n as if he had said them, and that his adoption of them gave them their ,,"eight. :\Iuch more absolute and centralizing "as the successor to 1Iirabeau ~s popularity and to much more than his predominance in France. Indeed, a man of Napoleon's stamp almost ceases to haye a pri\"ate speech and opinion. He is so largely receptiYe, and is so placed" that he comes to be... a bureau for all the intelligen~: ~t~nd p"q~t:JJj the age and country~He gains the battle: he makes the code; he makes tEe system of weights and measures ~ he levels the Alps; he builds the road. All distinguished engineers. savants. statists, report to him_: so likewise do all good heads in every kind: he adopts the best measures, sets his stamp on then1, and not these alone, but on every happy and memorable expression. Every sen'. . tence spoken by Napoleon and every line of his ,vriting. dese_rves reading, as it is the sense of France.. . Bonaparte was the idol of common men because he bad in tr'lnscep.dent degree the qualities and powers of common men. There is a certain satisfaction in coming do\"\rn to the lowest grolIDd 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 ..AII the sentiments which embarrass men's pursuit of these objects, he set aside. The sentiments were for women and childT en. Fontanes, in 1804, expressed Napoleon's own sense, when in behalf of the Senate he addressed him-'~Sire, ~l 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 of contempt often in his mouth-':Necker is an ideologist:" "Lafayette is an ideologist."

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An Italian proverb, too well known, declares that "if you would succeed, you must not be too good." It is an advantage, within -certain limits, to have renounced the dominion of the sentiments 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 formidable 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-vvorkman. 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. ~1en give way before such a man, as before natural events. To be sure there are men enough who are immersed in 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 ordinarily lack the power of arrangeme!lt, and are like hands without a head. But Bonaparte superadded to this mineral and animal 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 pre.. suppose him. He came unto his own and they received him. This ciphering operative knows what he is working with and what is the product. He knew the 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 arithmetic, It consisted, according to him, in having always more forces than the enemy, on the point where the enemy is attacked, or where he attacks: and his whole talent \s strained bv endless manreuvre and evolution, to march always on the enemy at an angle, and destroy his forces in detail. It is obvious that a very small force, skilfully and rapidly manceuvring S(l as always to bring two llleD of

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against one at the point of engagement, will be an oveI"Illt¥tFP fot.- .. a much larger body of men. ~':..: 7 The times . his constitution and his early circumstances com.. bined to deyelop this pattern democrat. He had the yirtues of his class and the conditions for their acti\;tv. 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: the directness 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 1110dern party_ Nature must have far the greatest share in every success, and so in his. Such a man was wanted~ and such a man was born; a man of stone and iron .. capable of sitting on horseback sL"{teen or seventeen hours" of going nlany days together without rest or food except by snatches, and with the speed and spring of a tiger in action ~ a man not embarrasset! by any scruples; compact, instant~ selfish~ prudent. and of a perception which did not suffer itself to be baulked or misled by any pretences of others, or any superstition or any heat or haste of his own. "~Iy hand of iron," he said: ~'was not at the extremity of my arm, it was immediately connected with nIY head." He respected the power of nature and fortune, and ascribed to it his superiority, instead of valuing himself, like inferior nlen. on his opinionativeness, and waging war with nature. His favorite rhetoric lay in allusion to his star~ and be pleased himself . as well as the people, when he styled himself 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, 't is in yain to ascribe it to intrigue or crime; it was owing to the peculiarity of the times and to my reputation of having fought well against the enemies of my country. I ha\"e alv.'ays marched with the opinion of great Inasses and witb events. Of what use then would crimes be to me?" ~Y means of a suit of wings should fly in the air in the manner of birds." But the secret slept with Bacon. The six hundred years have not yet fulfilled his words. Two centuries ago the sawing of timber was done by hand; the carriage wheels ran on wooden axles; the land was tilled by wooden ploughs. And it was to little purpose that they had pit. coal, or that looms were improved, unless Watt and Stephenson had taught them to work force-pumps and power-looms by steam. The great strides were all taken within the last hundred years. The Life of Sir Robert Peel, in his day the model Englishman, very properly has, for a frontispiece, a drawing of the !pinningjenny, which wove the web of his fortunes. Hargreaves invented the spinning-jenny, and died in a workhouse. Arkwright improved the invention, and the machine dispensed with the work of ninety-nine men; that is, one spinner could do as much work as one hundred had done before. The loom was improved further. But the men would sometimes strike for wages and combine against the masters, and, about 1829-30, much fear was felt lest the trade would be drawn away by these interruptions and the emigration of the spinners to Belgium and the United States. Iron and steel are very obedient. Whether it were not possible to make a spinner that would not rebel, nor mutter, nor scowl, nor strike for wages, nor emigrate? At the solicitation of the masters/, after a mob and riot at Staley Bridge, Mr. Roberts of Man. chester undertook~ to create this peaceful fellow, instead of the quarrelsome fellow God had made. After a few trials, he sue.. ceeded, and in 1830 procured a patent for his self-acting mule;

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a creation, the delight of mill-owners, and "destined," they said, "to restore order among the industrious classes"; a machine requiring only a child's hand to piece the broken yarns. As Ark .. wright had destroyed don1estic spinning, so Roberts destroyed the factory spinner. The power of machinery in Great Britain, in mills, has been computed to be equal to 600,000,000 men, one man being able by the aid of steam to do the work ""vhich r~.. quired two hundred and fifty men to accomplish fifty years ago. The production has been commensurate. England already had this laborious race, rich soil, water, wood, coal, iron and favorable climate. Eight hundred years ago commerce had made it rich, and it was recorded, "England is the richest of all the northern nations." The Norman historians recite that "in 1 067, William carried with him into Normandy, from England, more gold and silver than had ever before been seen in Gaul." But when, to this labor and trade and these native resources was added this goblin of steam, with his myriad arms, never tired, working night and day everlastingly, the amassing of property has run out of all figures. It makes the motor of the last ninety years. The steampipe has added to her popUlation and wealth the equivalent of four or five Englands. Forty thousand ships are entered in Lloyd's lists. The yield of wheat has gone on from 2,000,000 quarters in the time of the Stuarts, to 13,000,000 in 1854. A thousand million of pounds sterling are said to compose the floating money ri)f comnlerce. In 1848, Lord John Russell stated that the people of this country had laid out £300,000,000 of capital in railways, in the last four years. But a better measure than these sounding figures is the estimate that there is wealth enough in England to support the entire population in idleness for one year. The wise, versatile, all-giving machinery makes chisels, roads, locomotives, telegraphs. Whitworth divides a bar to a millionth of an inch. Steam twines huge cannon into wreaths, as easily as it braids straw, and vies with the volcanic forces which twisted the strata. It can clothe shingle mountains with ship-oaks, make sword-blades that will cut gun-barrels in two. In Egypt, it can plant forests, and bring rain after three thousand years. Already it is ruddering the balloon, and the next war will be fought in

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the air. But another machine more potent in England than steam is the Bank. It votes an issue of bills, population is stimulated and cities rise; it refuses loans, and emigration empties the country; trade sinks; revolutions break out; kings are dethroned. By these new agents our social system is moulded. By dint of steam and of money, war and commerce are changed. Nations have lost. their old omnipotence; the patriotic tie does not hold. N a .. tions are getting obsolete, we go and live where we will. Steam has enabled nlen to choose what law they will live under. Money makes place for them. The telegraph is a limp band that will hold the Fenris-wolf of war. For now that a telegraph line runs through France and Europe from London, every message it transmits makes stronger by one thread the band which war will have to

cut. The introduction of these elements gives new resources to existing proprietors. A sporting duke may fancy that the state depends on the House of Lords, but the engineer sees that every stroke of the steam-piston gives value to the duke's land, fills it with tenants; doubles, quadruples, centuples the duke's capital, and creates new measures and new necessities for the culture of his children. Of course it draws the nobility into the cOlnpetition J as stockholders in the mine, the canal, the railway, in the appH .. cation of steam to agriculture, and sometimes into trade. But it also introduces large classes into the same competition; the old energy of the Norse race arms itself with these magnificent powers; new men prove an overmatch for the land-owner, and the mill buys out the castle. Scandinavian Thor, who once forged his bolts in icy Hecla and built galleys by lonely fiords, in England has advanced with the times, has shorn his beard, enters Parliament, sits down at a desk in the India House and lends Miollnir to Birmingham for a steam-hammer. The creation of wealth in England in the last ninety years is a main fact in modern history. The wealth of London determines prices all over the globe. All things precious, or useful, or alnusing, or intoxicating, are sucked into this commerce and floated to London. Some English private fortunes reach, and some exceed a million of dollars a year. A hundred thousand palaces adorn

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the island .. All that Can feed the senses and passions, all that can succor the talent or arm the hands of the intelligent middle class, who never spare in what they buy for their own consumption; all that can aid science, gratify taste, or soothe comfort, is in open market. Whatever is excellent and beautiful in civil, rural, or ecclesiastic architecture, in fountain, garden, or groundsthe English noble crosses sea and land to see and to copy at home. The taste and science of thirty peaceful generations; the gardens which Evelyn planted; the temples and pleasure-houses which Inigo Jones and Christopher Wren built; the wood that Gibbons carved; the taste of foreign and domestic artists, Shenstone, Pope, Brown, Loudon, Paxton-are in the vast auction, and the hereditary principle heaps on the owner of to-day the benefit of ages of owners. The present possessors are to the full as absolute as any of their fathers in choosing and procuring what they like. This comfort and splendor, the breadth of lake and mountain, tillage, pasture and park, sumptuous castle and modern villa-all consist with perfect order. They have no revolutions; no horse-guards dictating to the crown; no Parisian poissardes and barricades; no mob: but drowsy habitude, daily dress .. dinners, wine and ale and beer and gin and sleep. With this power of creation and this passion for independence, property has reached an ideal perfection. It is felt and treated as the national life-blood. The laws are framed to give property the securest possible basis, and the provisions to lock and transmit it have exercised the cunningest heads in a profession which never admits a fool. The rights of property nothing but felony and treason can override. The house is a castle which the king

cannot enter. The Bank is a strong box to which the king has no key. Whatever surly sweetness possession can give, is tasted in England to the dregs. Vested rights are awful things, and absolute possession gives the smallest freeholder identity of interest with the duke. High stone fences and padlocked garden-gates announce the absolute will of the owner to be alone. Every whim of exaggerated egotism is put into stone and iron, into silver and gold J with costly deliberation and detail. An Englishman hears that the Queen Dowager wishes to es-

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tablish some claim to put her park paling a rod forward into his grounds, so as to get a coachway and save her a mile to the avenue. Instantly he transforms his paling into stone-masonry, solid as the walls of Cuma, and all Europe cannot prevail on him to sell or compound for an inch of the land. They delight in a freak as the proof of their sovereign freedom. Sir Edward Boynton, at Spic Park at Cadenham, on a precipice of incom. . parable prospect, built a house like a long barn, which had not a window on the prospect side. Strawberry Hill of Horace Walpole, Fonthill Abbey of Mr. Beckford, were freaks; and Newstead Abbey became one in the hands of Lord Byron. But the proudest result of this creation has been the great and refined forces it has put at the disposal of the private citizen. In the social world an Englishman to-day has the best lot. He is a king in a plain coat. He goes with the most powerful protection, keeps the best company, is armed by the best education, is seconded by wealth; and his English name and acci· dents are like a flourish of trumpets announcing him. This, with his quiet style of manners, gives him the power of a sovereign without the inconveniences which belong to that rank. I much prefer the condition of an English gentleman of. the better class to that of any potentate in Europe-whether for travel, or for opportunity of society, or for access to means of science or study, or. for mere comfort and easy healthy relation to people at home. Such as we have seen is the wealth of England; a mighty mass, and made good in whatever details we care to explore. The cause and spring of it is the wealth of temperament in the people. The wonder of Britain is this plenteous nature. Her worthies are ever surrounded by as good men as themselves; each is a captain a hundred strong, and that wealth of men is represented again in the faculty of each individualthat he has w~.ste strength, power to spare. The English are so rich and seem to have established a tap-root in the bowels of the planet, because they are constitutionally fertile and creative. But a man must keep an eye on his servants, if he would not

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have them rule him . Man is a shrewd inventor and is ever taking the hint of a new machine from his own structure, adapting some secret of his own anatonlY in iron, wood and leather to some required function in the work of the world. But it is found that the machine unmans the user. What he gains in making cloth, he loses in general power. There should be tern.. perance in nlaking cloth, as well as in eating. A man should not be a silk-worm, nor a nation a tent of caterpillars. The robust rural Saxon degenera tes in the mills to the Leicester stockinger, to the imbecile Manchester spinner-far on the way to be spiders and needles. The incessant repetition of the same hand-work dwarfs the man, robs him of his strength, wit and versatility, to make a pin-polisher, a buckle-maker, or any other specialty; and presently, in a change of industry, whole towns are sacrificed like ant-hills, when the fashion of shoe-strings supersedes buckles, when cotton takes the place of linen, or railways of turnpikes, or when commons are enclosed by landlords. Then society is admonished of the mischief of the division of labor, and that the best political economy is care and culture of men; for in these crises all are ruined except such as are proper individuals, capable of thought and of new choice and the application of their talent to new labor . Then again come in new calamities. England is aghast at the disclosure of her fraud in the adulteration of faod, of drugs and of almost every fabric in her mills and shops; finding that milk will not nourish, nor sugar sweeten, nor bread satisfy, nor pepper bite the tongue, nor glue stick~ In true England all is false and forged. This too is the reaction of machinery, but of the larger machinery of commerce. 'T is not" I suppose, want of probity, so much as the tyranny of trade, which necessitates a.. perpetual competition of underselling, and that again a perpetual deterioration of the fabric. The machinery has proved, like the balloon, unmanageable, and flies away with the aeronaut. Steam from the first hissed and screamed to warn him; it was dreadful with its explosion, and crushed the engineer. The machinist has wrought and watched .. engmeers and firemen without number have been sacrificed in'

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learning to tame and guide the monster. But harder still it has proved to resist and rule the dragon Money, with his paper wings. Chancellors and Boards of Trade, Pitt, Peel and Robinson and their Parliaments and their whole generation adopted false principles, and went to their graves in the belief that they were enriching the country which they were impoverishing~ They congratulated each other on ruinous expedients. It is rare to find a merchant who knows why a crisis occurs in trade~ why prices rise or fall, or who knows the mischief of paper . . money. In the culmination of national prosperity, in the annexation of countries; building of ships, depots, towns; in the influx of tons of gold and silver; amid the chuckle of chancellors and financiers, it was found that bread rose to famine prices that the yeoman was forced to sell his cow and pig, his tools and his acre of land; and the dreadful barometer of the poor· rates was touching the point of ruin. The poor-rate was sucking in the solvent classes and forcing an exodus of farmers and mechanics. What befalls from the violence of financial crises, befalls daily in the violence of artificial legislation. J

Such a wealth has England earned, ever new, bounteous and augmenting. But the question recurs, does she take the step beyond, namely to the wise use, in view of the suprenle wealth ~f nations? We estimate the wisdoln of nations by seeing what they did with their surplus capital. And, in view of these injuries, some compensation has been attempted in England. A part of the' liloney earned returns to the brain to buy schools, libraries, bishops, astronomers, chemists and artists with; and a part to repair the wrongs of this intemperate weaving, by hospitals, savings-banks, Mechanics' Institutes, public grounds and other charities and amenities. But the antidotes are fright ... fully inadequate, and the evil requires a deeper cure, which time and a simpler social organization must supply. At present she does not rule her wealth. She is simply a good England, but no divinity, or wise and instructed soul.. She too is in the stream of fate, one victim more in a common catastrophe . But being in the fault, she has the misfortune of greatness t.~

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be held as the chief offender. England must be held responsible for the despotism of expense. Her prosperity, the splendor which so much manhood and talent and perseverance has thrown upon vulgar aims, is the very argument of materialism. Her success strengthens the hands of base wealth. Who can propose to youth poverty and wisdom, when mean gain has arrived at the con. . quest of letters and arts; when English success has grown out of the very renunciation of principles, and the dedication to outsides? A civility of trifles, of money and expense, an erudition of sensation takes place, and the putting as many impediments as we can between the man and his objects. Hardly the hravest among them have the manliness to resist it successfully. Hence It has come that not the aims of a manly life, but the means of meeting a certain ponderous expense, is that which is to be considered by a youth in England emerging from his minority. A large family is reckoned a misfortune. And it is a consolation in the death of the young, that a source of expense is closed.

CHAPTER XI ARISTOCRACY

feudal character of the English state, now that it is getting obsolete, glares a little, in contrast with the democratic ten.. dencies. The inequality of power and property shocks republican nerves . Palaces, halls, villas, walled parks, all over England, rival the splendor of royal seats. Many of the halls, like Haddon or Kedleston, are beautiful desolations. The proprietor never saw them, or never lived in them. Primogeniture built these sumptuous piles, and I suppose it is the sentiment of every traveller, as it was mine, It was well to come ere these were gone. Primogeniture is a cardinal rule of English property and institutions. Laws, customs, manners, the very persons and faces, affirm it. The frame of society is aristocratic, the taste of the people is loyal. The estates, names and manners of the nobles flatter the 'fHE

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fancy of the people and conciliate the necessary support. In 3pite of broken faith, stolen charters and the devastation oj society by the profligacy of the court, we take sides as '\Ive read for the loyal England and I(ing Charles's "return to his right" with his Cavaliers-knowing what a heartless trifler he is, and what a cre,\v of God-forsaken robbers they are. The people of England knew as much. But the fair idea of a settled government connecting itself with heraldic nanles, with the written and oral history of Europe, and, at last, with the Hebrew religion and the oldest traditions of the vvorld, was too pleasing a vision to be shattered by a fevv offensive realities and the pol.. itics of shoe-Inakers and costern10ngers. 1.' .le hopes of the COIn. moners take the san1e direction with the interest of the patricians. Every D1an who beconles rich buys land and does what he ea") to fortify the nobility, jnto which he hopes to rise. The Anglican clergy are identified with the aristocracy. Time and la'll have made the joining and moulding perfect in every part. The Cathedrals, the Universities" the national music, the popular romances, conspire to uphold the heraldry which the current politics of the day are sapping. The taste of the people is conservative. They are proud of the castles, and of the language and symbol of chivalry. Even the word lord is the luckiest style that is used in any language to designate a patrician The superior education and manners of the nobles reconl111end them to the country. The Norwegian pirate got what he could and held it for hi~ eldest son. The Norlnan noble, who was the Norwegian pirate baptized, did likewise. There was this advantage of 'Vestern over Oriental nobility, that this was recruited fronl below. English history is aristocracy with the doors open. \Vho has courage and faculty, let him COlne in. Of course the terms of admission to this club are hard and high. The selfishness of the nobles comes in aid of the interest of the nation to requir ~ signal merit. I)iracy and war gave place to trade, politics and letters; the war-lord to the law-lord; the law-lord to the mer ... chant and the Inill-owner; but the privilege was kept, wbllst the means of obtaining it were changed.

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The foundations of these families lie deep in NorwegIan exploits by sea and Saxon sturdiness on land. All nobility in its beginnings was somebody's natural superiority. The things these English have done were not done without peril of life, nor without wisdom and conduct; and the first hands, it may be presumed, were often challenged to show their right to their honors, or yield them to better men. "He that will be a head, let him be a bridge," said the Welsh chief Benegridran, when he carried all his men over the river on his back. '(He shall have the book," said the mother of Alfred, "who can read it"; and Alfred won it by that title: and I make no doubt that feudal tenure was no sinecure, but baron, knight and tenant often had their memories refresbed, in regard to the service by which they held their lands. The De Veres, Bohuns, Mowbrays and Plantagenets were not addicted to contemplation. The Middle Age adorned itself with proofs of manhood and devotion. Of Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, the Emperor told Henry V that no Christian king had suc~ another knight for wisdom, nurture and manhood, and caused him to be named, "Father of curtesie." "Our success in France," says the historian, "lived and died with him." The war-lord earned his honors, and no donation of land was large, as long as it brought the duty of protecting it, bour by hour, against a terrible enemy. In France and in Eng.. land the nobles were, down to a late day, born and bred to war: and the duel, which in peace still held them to the risks of war, diminished the envy that in trading and studious nations would else have pried into their title. They were looked on as men who played high for a great stake. Great estates are not sinecures, if they are to be kept great. A creative economy is the fuel of magnificence. In the same line of Warwick, the successor next but one to Beauchamp was the stout earl of Henry VI and Edward IV. Few esteemed themselves in the mode, whose heads were not adorned with the black ragged staff, his badge. At his house in London, six oxen were daily eaten at a breakfast, and every tavern was full of his meat, and who had any acquaintance in his family should

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have as much boiled and roast as he could carryon a long

dagger. The new age brings new qualities intu request; the virtues of pirates gave way to those of planters, merchants, senators ~nd scholars. Comity, social taleut and fine manners, no doubt, have had their part also. I have met somewhere with a blStoriette, which, whether more or less true in its particulars, carries a general truth. "How came the Duke of Bedford by his great landed estates? His ancestor having travelled on the continent, a lively, pleasant man, became the companion of a foreign prince wrecked on the Dorsetshire coast, where Mr. Russell lived. The prince recommended him to Henry VIII, who, liking his company, gave him a large share of the plundered church lands." The pretence is that the noble is of unbroken descent from the Norman, and has never worked for eight hundred years. But the fact is otherwise. Where is Bohun? where is De Vere? The lawyer, the farmer, the silk-mercer lies perdu under the coronet, and winks to the antiquary to say nothing; especially skilful lawyers, nobody's sons, who did some piece of work at a nice moment for government and were rewarded with ermine. The national tastes of the English do not lead them to the life of the courtier, but to secure the comfort and independence of their homes. The aristocracy are marked by their predilec. . tion for country-life. They are called the county-families. They have often no residence in London and only go thither a short time, during the season, to see the opera; but they concentrate the love and labor of many generations on the building, plant.. ing and decoration of their homesteads. Some of them are too old and too proud to wear titles, or, as Sheridan said of Coke, "disdain to hide their head in a coronet"; and some curious examples are cited to show the stability of English families. Their proverb is, that fifty miles from London, a family will last a hundred years; at a hundred miles, two hundred years; and so on; but I doubt that steam, the enemy of time as well as of space, will disturb these ancient rules. Sir Henry WottOD says of the first Duke of Buckingham, "He was born at BrookebY

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in Leicestershire, where his ancestors had chiefly continued about the space of four hundred years, rather without obscurity, than with any great lustre." Wraxall says that in I78I, Lord Surrey, afterwards Duke of Norfolk, told him that when the year I7 83 should arrive, he meant to give a grand festival to all the descendants of the body of Jockey of Norfolk, to mark the day when the dukedom should have remained three hundred years in their house, since its creation by Richard III. Pepys tells us, in writing of an Earl Oxford, in 1666, that the honor had now remained in that name and blood six hundred years. This long descent of families and this cleaving through ages to the sanle spot of ground, captivates the imagination. It has too a connection with the names of the towns and districts of the country . The names are excellent-an atmosphere of legendary melody spread over the land. Older than all epics and histories which clothe a nation, this undershirt sits close to the body. What history too, and what stores of prhnitive and savage observa... tion it enfolds! Cambrirlge is the bridge of the Cam; Sheffield the field of the river Sheaf; Leicester the castra, or camp, of the Lear, or Leir (now Soar); Rochdale, of the Roch; Exeter or E::cester, the castra of the Ex; Exnlouth, Dartlnouth, Sidmouth, Teignmouth, the mouths of the Ex, Dart, Sid and Teign rivers. '~Valtham is strong town; Radcliffe is red cliff; and so on-a sinceri ty and use in naming very striking to an Anlerican, whose country is whitewashed all over by unmeaning names, the cast-off clothes of the country from which its emigrants ("arne; or named at a pinch from a psalm-tune. But the English are those "barbarians" of Jamblichus, who "are stable in their manners, and firmly continue to employ the same words, which also are dear to the gods." 'T is an old sneer that the Irish peerage drew their names from playbooks. The English lords do not call their lands after their own names, but call themselves after their lands, as if the man represented the country that bred hinl; and they rightly wear the token of the glebe that gave theln birth, suggesting that the tie- is not cut, but that there in London-the crags

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of Argyle, the kail of Cornwall, the downs of Dev0n, the iron of "Vales, the clays of Stafford are neither forgetting nor forgotten, but know the Ulan who ,vas born by them and who, like the long line of his fathers, has carried that crag, that shore, dale, fen, or woodland, in his blood and manners. It has, too, the advantage of suggesting responsibleness. A susceptible man could not V\Tear a nalne which represented in a strict sense a city or a county of England, without hearing in it a challenge to duty and honor. The predilection of the patricians for residence in the country, combined with the degree of liberty possessed by the peasant, Dlakes the safety of the English. hall. l\1irabeau wrote prophetically from England, in 1784, "If revolution break out in France, I tren1ble for the aristocracy: their chateaux will be reduced to ashes and their blood be spilt in torrents. The English tenant would defend his lord to the last extremity." The English go to their estates for grandeur. The French live at court, and exile themselves to their estates for economy. As they do not mean to live with their tenants, they do not conciliate then1, but wring from them the last SOlts. Evelyn writes from Blois, in 1644: "The wolves are here in such nUlnbers, that they often come and take children Qut of the streets; yet will not the Duke, who is sover. . eign here, permit them to be destroyed." In evidence of the wealth amassed by ancient families, the traveller is shown the palaces in Piccadilly, Burlington House, Devonshire House, Lansdowne House in Berkshire Square, and lower down in the city, a fe'\v noble houRes which still withstaild in all their ampJitude the encroachment of streets. The Duke of Bedford includes or included a mile square in the heart of London, vvherc the British Museuln, once l\1ontague House, now stands, and the land occupied by Woburn Square, Bedford Square, Russell Square~ l'he Marquis of Westminster built within a few years the series of squares called Belgravia. Stafford House is the noblest palace in London. Northumberland House holds its place by Charing Cross. Chesterfield House renlains in Audley Street. Sian House and Holland House are in the suburbs. But most of the historical houses are masked or lost in the modern

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uses to which trade or charity has converted them. A multitude of town palaces contain inestimable galleries of art. In the country, the size of private estates is more impressive. ~rom Barnard Castle I rode on the highway twenty.. three miles from High Force, a fall of the Tees, towaxds Darlington, past Raby Castle, through the estate of the Duke of Cleveland. The Marquis of Breadalbane rides out of his house a hundred miles in a straight line to the sea, on his own property. The Duke of Sutherland owns the County of Sutherland, stretching acr()ss Scotland from sea to sea. The Duke of Devonshire, besides his other estates, owns 96,000 acres in the County of Derby. The Duke of Richmond has 40,000 acres at Goodwood and 300,000 at Gordon Castle. The Duke of Norfolk's park in Sussex is fifteen miles in circuit. An agriculturist bought lately the island of Lewis, in Hebrides, containing 500,000 acres. The posses. sions of the Earl of Lonsdale gave him eight seats in Parliament. This is the Heptarchy again; and before the Reform of 1832~ one hundred and fifty-four persons sent three hundred and seven members to Parliament. The borough..mongers governed England. These large domains are growing larger. The great estates are absorbing the small freeholds. In 1786 the soil of England was owned by 250,000 corporations and proprietors; and in 1822, by 32,000. These broad estates find room in this narrow island. All over England, scattered at short intervals among ship-yards, mills, mines and forges, are the paradises of the nobles, where the livelong repose and refinement are heightened by the contrast with the roar of industry and necessi~y, out of which you have stepped aside. ' I was surprised to observe the very small attendance usually in the House of Lords. Out of five hundred and seventy-three peers, on ordin.ary days only twenty or thirty_ Where are they? I asked. "At home on their estates, devoured by ennui, or in the Alps, or up the Rhine, in the Harz Mountains, or in Egypt, or in India, on the Ghauts." But, with such interests at stake, how can these men afford to neglect them? "0," replied my

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friend, "why should they work for themselves, when every man in England works for them and will suffer before they come to harm?" The hardest radical instantly uncovers and changes his tone to a lord. It was remarked, on the loth April, 1848 (the day of the Chartist demonstration), that the upper classes were for the first time actively interesting themselves in their own defence, and men of rank were sworn special constables with the rest. "Besides, why need they sit out the debate? Has not the Duke of Wellington, at this moment, their proxies-the proxies of fifty peers-in his pocket, to vote for them if there be an emergency? " It is however true that the existence of the House of Peers as a branch of the government entitles them to fill half the Cabinet; and their weight of property and station gives them a virtuaJ nomination of the other half; whilst they have their share in the subordinate offices, as a school of training. This monopoly of political power has given them their intellectual and social eminence in Europe. A few law lords and a few political lords take the brunt of public business. In the arlny, the nobility fill a large part of the high commissions, and gi ve to these a tone of expense and splendor and also of exclusiveness. They have borne their full share of duty and danger in this service, and there are few noble families which have not paid, in some of their menlbers, the debt of life or limb in the sacrifices of the Russian war. For the rest, the nobility have the lead in matters of state and of expense; in questions of taste, in social usages, in convivial and domestic hospitalities. In general, all that is required of them is to sit securely, to preside at public meetings, to countenanee charities and to give the example of that decorum so dear to the British heart. If one asks, in the critical spirit of the day, what service this class have rendered?-uses appear, or they would have perished long ago. Some of these are easily enumerated, others more subtle make a part of unconscious history. Their institution is one step in the progress of society. For a race yields a nobility in some form, however we name the lords, as surely as it yields women. The English nobles are high-spirited, active, educated men, ·

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born to wealth and power, who have run through every country rlnd kept in every country the best company, have seen every secret of art and nature, and, when men of any ability or ambi .. tion, have been consulted in the conduct of every important action. You cannot wield great agencies without lending yourself to them, and when it happens that the spirit of the earl meets his rank and duties, we have the best examples of behavior. Power of any kind readily appears in the manners; and beneficent power le talent de bien fair'e, gives a Inajesty which cannot be concealed or resisted. These people seem to gain as much as they lose by thei.r posi.. tion. They survey society as from the top of St. Paul's, and if they never hear plain truth from men, they see the best of everything, in every kind, and they see things so grouped and amassed as to infer easily the sum and genius, instead of tedious particularities. Their good behavior deserves all its fame, and they have that simplicity and that air of repose which are the finest ornament of greatness. The upper classes have only birth, say the people here, and not thoughts. Yes, but they have manners, and it is wonderful how much talent runs into manners nowhere-and never so much as in England. They have the sense of superiority, the absence of all the ambitious effort which disgusts in the aspiring classes, a pure tone of thought and feeling, and the power to command, among their other luxuries the presence of the most accomplished men in their festive meetings. Loyalty is in the English a sub-religion. They wear the laws as ornaments, and walk by their faith in their painted May-Fair as if among the forms of gods. The economist of 1855 who asks, Of what use are the lords? may learn of Franklin to ask, Of what use is a baby? They have been a social church proper to inspire sentiments mutually honoring the lover and the loved. Politeness is the ritual of society, as prayers are of the church, a school of manners, and a gentle blessing to the age in which it grew. 'T is a romance adorning English life with a larger horizon; a midway heaven, fulfilling to their sense their fairy tales and poetry. This, just as far as the breeding of the noble1

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man really made hhn brave, handsome, accomplished and great.. hearted. On general grounds, whatever tends to form nlanners or to finish Inen, has a great value. Everyone who has tasted the delight of friendship will respect every social guard vyhich our manners can establish, tending to secure from the intrusion of frivolous and distasteful people. The jealousy of every class to guard itself is a testimony to the reality they have found in life When a In an once knows that he has done justice to hinlselt, let hhn dismiss all terrors of aristocracy as superstitions, so far as he is concerned. He who keeps the door of a mine, whether of cobalt, or mercury, or nickel, or plumbago, securely knows that the world cannot do without him. Everybody who is real is open and ready for that which is also real. Besides, these are they who make England that strongbox and museum it is; who gather and protect works of art, dragged from amidst burning cities and revolutionary countries, and brought hither out of all the world. I look with respect at houses six, seven, eight hundred, or, like Warwick Castle. nine hundred vears old. I pardoned high park-fences, when I saw that besides does and pheasants, these have preserved Arundel marbles; Townley galleries, Howard and Spenserian libraries, \Varwick and Port . land vases, Saxon manuscripts, monastic architectures, millen . nial trees, and breeds of cattle elsewhere extinct. In these manors, after the frenzy of war and destruction subsides a little, the antiqu3.ry finds the frailest ROlnan jar or crunlbling Egyptian mummy-case, without so much as a new layer of dust, keeping the series of history unbroken and waiting for its interpreter, who is sure to arrive. These lords are the treasurers and librarians of mankind, enga.ged by their pride and '\vealth to this function. Yet there were other works for British dukes to do. George Loudon, Quintinye, Evelyn, had taught them to make gardens. Arthur Young, Bakewell and Mechi have nlade theln agricul .. tural. Scotland was a camp until the day of Culloden. The Dukes of Athol, Sutherland, Buccleugh and the IV[arquis of Breaclalbane have introduced the rape-culture, the sheep-farm, wheat, drainage, the plantation of forests, the artificial replenishment

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of lakes and ponds with fish, the renting of game-preserves. Against the cry of the old tenantry and the sympathetic cry of the English press, they have rooted out and planted anew, and now six millions of people live, and live better, on the same land that fed three millions. The English barons, in every period, have been grave and great, after the estimate and opinion of their times. The grand old halls scattered up and down in England, are dumb vouchers to the state and broad hospitality of their ancient lords. Shakspeare's portraits of good Duke Humphrey, of Warwick, of Northumberland, of Talbot, were drawn in strict consonance with the traditions. A sketch of the Earl of Shrewsbury, from the pen of Queen Elizabeth's archbishop Parker; Lord Herbert of Cherbury's autobiography; the letters and essays of Sir Philip Sidney; the anecdotes preserved by the antiquaries Fuller and Collins; some glimpses at the interiors of noble houses, which we owe to Pepys and Evelyn; the details which Ben Jonson's masques (performed at Kenilworth, Althorpe, Belvoir and other noble houses), record or suggest; down to Aubrey's passages of the life of Hobbes in the house of the Earl of • Devon, are favorable pictures of a romantic style of manners. Penshurst still shines for us, and its Christmas revels, "where logs not burn, but men." At Wilton House the "Arcadia" was written, amidst conversations with Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke, a man of no vulgar Inind, as his own poems declare him. I must hold Ludlow Castle an honest house, for which Milton's "Comus" was written, and the company nobly bred which performed it with knowledge and sympathy. In the roll of nobles are found poets, philosophers, chemists, astronomers, also men of solid virtues and of lofty sentiments; often they have been the friends and patrons of genius and learning, and especially of the fine arts; and at this moment, almost every great house has its sumptuous picture-gallery. Of course there is another side to this gorgeous show. Every victory was the defeat of a party only less worthy. Castles are proud things, but 't is safest to be outside of them. War is a foul game, and yet war is not the worst part of aristocratic history.

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In later times, when the baron, educated only for war, with his brains paralyzed by hIs stomach, found himself idle at home, hp grew fat and wanton and a sorry brute. Grammont, Pepys and Evelyn show the kennels to which the king and court went in quest of pleasure. Prostitutes taken from the theatres were made duchesses, their bastards dukes and earls. "The young men sat uppermost, the old serious lords were out of favor." The dis . . course that the king's companions had with him was "poor and frothy." No man who valued his head might do what these pot... companions familiarly did with the king. In logical sequence of these dignified revels, Pepys can tell the beggarly shifts to which the king was reduced, who could not find paper at his council table, and "no handkerchers" in his wardrobe, "and but three bands to his neck," and the linen-draper and the stationer were out of pocket and refusing to trust him, and the baker will not bring bread any longer. Meantime the English Channel was swept and London threatened by the Dutch fleet, manned too by English sailors, who, having been cheated of their pay for years by the king, enlisted with the enemy_ . The Selwyn correspondence, in the reign of George III, discloses a rottenness in the aristocracy which threatened to decom .. pose the state. The sycophancy and sale of votes and honor, fot place and title; lewdness, gaming, smuggling, bribery and cheat· ing; the sneer at the childish indiscretion of quarrelling with ten thousand a year; the want of ideas; the splendor of the titles, and the apathy of the nation, are instructive, and make the reader pause and explore the firm bounds which confined these vices to a handful of rich men. In the reign of the Fourth George, things do not seem to have mended, and the rotten debauchee let down from a window by an inclined plane into his coach to take the air, was a scandal to Europe which the ill fame of his queen and of his family did nothing to retrieve. Under the present reign the perfect decorum of the Court is thought to have put a check 011 the gross vices of the aristocracy; yet gaming, racing, drinking and mistresses bring them down, and the democrat can still gather scandals, if he will. Dismal anecdotes abound, verifying the gossip of the last generation, of dukes

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served by bailiffs, with all their plate in pawn; of great lords living by the showing of their houses, and of an old man wheeled in bis chair from room to rOOln, whilst his chambers are exhibited to the visitor for money; of ruined dukes and earls living in exile for debt. The historic names of the Buckinghams, Beauforts, ~fa(lboroughs and Hertfords have gained no new lustre, and now and then darker scandals break Qut, ominous as the new chapters add,:.d under the Orleans dynasty to the "Causes Celebres" in France. Even peers \i\Tho are men of worth and public spirit are overtaken and embarrassed by their vast expense. The respectable l)uke of Devonshire, willing to be the l\/lrecenas and LuculIus of his island, is reported to have said that he cannot live at Chats\vorth but one lTIonth in the year. Their many houses eat them up. They cannot sell them, because they are entailed. They will not let them, for pride's sake, but keep them empty, aired, and the grounds mown and dressed, at a cost of four or five thousand pounds a year. The spending is for a great part in aervants, in n1any houses exceeding a hundred. 110st of them are only chargeable \vith idleness, which, because it squandtrs such vast power of benefit, has the Inischief of crime. "They Inight be little Providences on earth," said Iny friend, "and they are, for the most part, jockeys and fops." Campbell says, "Acquaintance with the nobility, I could never keep up. It requires a life of idleness, dressing and attendance on their parties." I suppose too that a feeling of self-respect is driving cultivated men out of this society, as if the noble were slow to receive the lessons of the times and had not learned to disguise his pride of place. A man of wit, who is also one of the celebrities of wealth and fashion, confessed to his friend that he could 110t enter their houses without being made to feel that they were great lords, and he a low plebeian. ,\Vith the tribe of artistes, including the musical tribe, the patrician morgue keeps no terms,

but excludes them. "Vhen Julia Grisi and Mario sang at the houses of the Duke of ,,:--ellington and other grandees, a cord was stretched between the singer and the company. vVhen every noble was a soldier, they were carefully bred to great personal prowess. The education of a soldier is a simpler

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affair than that of an earl in the nineteenth century. And this was very seriously pursued; they were expert in every species of equitation, to the most dangerous practices, and this down to the accession of Willialn of Orange. But graver men appear to have trained their sons for civil affairs. Elizabeth extended her thought to the future; and Sir Philip Sidney in his letter to his brother, and Milton and Evelyn, gave plain and hearty counsel. Already too the English noble and squire were preparing for the career of the count.ry-gentleman and his peaceable expense. They went from city to city, learning receipts to make perfumes, sweet powders, pomanrlers, antidotes, gathering seeds, gems, coins and divers curiosities, preparing for a private life thereafter, when they should take pleasure in these recreations. All advantages given to absolve the young patrician from intellectuallabor are of course mistaken. "In the university, noblemen are exempted from the public exercises for the degree, etc., by which they attain a degree called honorary. At the same time, the fees they have to pay for matriculation, and on all other occasions, are much higher." Fuller records "the observation of foreigners, that Englishmen, by making their children gentlemen before they are men, cause they are so seldom wise men." This cockering justifies Dr. Johnson's bitter apology for primo . . geniture, that "it makes but one fool in a family." The revolution in society has reached this class. The great powers of industrial art have no exclusion of name or blood. The tools of our time, namely steam, ships, printing, money and popular education, belong to those who can handle them; and their effect has been that advantages once confined to men of family are now open to the whole middle class. The road that grandeur levels for his coach, toil can travel in his cart. This is more manifest every day, but I think it is true through . . out English history. English history, wisely read, is the vindica .. tion of the brain of that people. Here at last. were clin1ate and condition friendly to the working faculty. Who now will work and dare, shall rule. This is the charter, or the chartism, which fogs and seas and rains proclaimed-that intellect and personal f'lrce should make the law; that industry and administrati~

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talent should administer; that work should wear the crown. I know that not this, but something else is pretended. The fiction with which the noble and the bystander equally please themselves is that the former is of unbroken descent from the Norman, and so has never worked for eight hundred years. All the families are new, but the name is old, and they have made a covenant with their memories not to disturb it. But the analysis of the ,peerage and gentry shows the rapid decay and extinction of old 'families, the continual recruiting of these from new blood. The doors, though ostentatiously guarded, are really open, and hence the power of the bribe. All the barriers to rank only whet the thirst and enhance the prize. "Now," said Nelson, when clearing for battle, "a peerage, or Westminster Abbey!" "I have no illu .. sion left," said Sydney Smith, "but the Archbishop of Canterbury." "The lawyers," said Burke, "are only birds of passage in this House of Commons," and then added, with a new figure, "they have their best bower anchor in the House of Lords." Another stride that has been taken appears in the perishing of heraldry. Whilst the privileges of nobility are passing to the middle class, the badge is discredited and the titles of lordship are getting musty and cumbersome. I wonder that sensible men have not been already impatient of them. They belong, with wigs, powder and scarlet coats, to an earlier age and may be advantageously consigned, with paint and tatoo, to the digni .. taries of Australia and Polynesia. A multitude of English, educated at the universities, bred into their society with manners, ability and the gifts of fortune, are every day confronting the peers on a footing of equality, and outstripping them, as often, in the race of honor and influence. That cultivated class is large and ever enlarging. It is computed that, with titles and without, there are seventy thousand of these people coming and going in London, who make up what is called high society. They cannot shut their eyes to the fact that an untitled nobility possess all the power without the inconveniences that belong to rank, and the rich Englishman goes over the world at the present day, drawing more than all the advantages which the strongest of his kings could command.

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CHAPTER XII UNIVERSITIES

OF BRITISH universities, Cambridge has the most illustrious names on its list. At the present day too, it has the advantage of Oxford, counting in its alumni a greater nun1ber of distinguished scholars. I regret that I had but a single day wherein to see King's College Chapel, the beautiful lawns and gardens of the colleges, and a few of its gownsmen. But I availed myself of some repeated invitations to Oxford, where I had introductions to Dr. Daubeny, Professor of Botany, and to the Regius Professor of Divinity, as well as to a valued friend, a Fellow of Oriel, and went thither on the last day of March, 1848. I was the guest of Iny friend in Oriel, was housed close upon that coJlege, and I lived on college hospitalities. My new friends showed me their cloisters, the Bodleian Library, the Randolph Gallery, Merton Hall and the rest. I saw several faithful, high-minded young men, some of them in the mood of making sacrifices for peace of mind-a topic, of course, on which I had no counsel to offer. Their affectionate and gregarious ways reminded me at once of the habits of our Cambridge men, though I imputed to these English an advantage in their secure and polished manners. The halls are rich with oaken wainscoting and ceiling. The pictures of the founders hang from the walls; the tables glitter \vith plate. A youth came forward to the upper table and pronounced'the ancient form of grace before meals, which, I suppose, has been in use here for ages, Benedictus, benedicat; benedicitur, benedicatur. It is a courious proof of the English use and wont, or of their good nature, that these young men are locked up every night at nine o'clock, and the porter at each hall is required to give the name of any belated student who is admitted after that hour. Still more descriptive is the fact that out of twelve hundred young men, comprising the most spirited of the aristocracy, a duel has never occurred. Oxford is old, even in England, and conservative. Its founda"

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tions date from Alfred and even from Arthur, if, as is alleged, the Pheryllt of the Druids had a seminary here. In the reign of Edward I, it is pretended, here were thirty thousand students; and nineteen most noble foundations were then established. Chaucer found it as firm as if it had always stood; and it is, in "British story, rich with great names, the school of the island and the link of England to the learned of Europe. Hither came Erasmus, with delight, in 1497. Albericus Gentilis, in 1580, was relieved and maintained by the university. Albert Alaskie, a noble Polonian, Prince of Sirad, who visited England to admire the wisdom of Queen Elizabeth, was entertained with stage-plays in the Refectory of Christ-Church in 1583. Isaac Casaubon, coming from Henri Quatre of France by invitation of James I, ,vas admitted to Christ-Church, in July, 1613. I saw the Ashlnolean Museum, whither Elias Ashmole in 1682 sent twelve cart-loads ,of rarities. Sere indeed was the Olympia of all Antony Wood's and Aubrey's games and heroes, and every inch of ground has its lustre. For ",rood's AtJtentE Oxonienses, or calendar of the writers of Oxford for two hundred years, is a lively record of English manners and merits, and as much a national monunlent as Purchas's Pilgrims or Hansard's Register. On every side, Oxford is redolent of age and authority. Its gates shut of themselves against modern innovation. It is still governed by the statutes of Archbishop Laud. The books in J\lerton Library are still chained to the wall. Here, on August 27, I 660, John Milton's Pro Populo Anglicano Defensio and Iconoclastes were committed to the flames. I saw the school-court or quadrangle where, in I683, the Convocation caused the Leviathan of Thomas Hobbes to be publicly burnt. I do not know whether this learned body have yet heard of the Declaration of American Independence, or whether the Ptolemaic astronomy does not still bold its ground against the novelties of Copernicus. As many sons, almost so many benefactors. It is usual for a nobleman, or indeed for almost every wealthy student, on quitting college to leave behind him some article of plate; and gifts of all values, from a hall or a fellowship or a library, down to a picture or a spoon, are continually accruing, in the course of a

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century. My friend Doctor J. gave me the following anecdote. In Sir Thomas Lawrence's collection at London were the cartoons of Raphael and Michael Angelo. This inestimable prize vvas offered to Oxford University for seven thousand pounds. The offer was accepted, and the committee charged with the affair had collected three thousand pounds, when, among other friends, they called on Lord Eldon. Instead of a hundred pounds, he surprised them by putting down his name for three thousand pounds. They told him they should now very easily raise the remainder. "No," he said, "your men have probably already contributed all they can spare; I can as well give the rest:" and he withdrew his cheque for three thousand, and wrote four thousand pounds. I saw the whole collection in April, J 848. In the Bodleian Library, Dr. Bandinel shoV\Ted me the manu. . . script Plato, of the date of A.D. 896, brought by Dr. Clarke from Egypt; a manuscript Virgil of the sanle cp.ntury; the first Bible printed at Mentz (I believe in I4 50); and a duplicate of the same, which had been deficient in abollt twenty leaves at the end. But one day, being in Venice, he bought a room full of books and manuscripts-every scrap and fragment-for four thousand louis (l'ors, and had the doors locked and sealed by the consul. On proceeding afterwards to e,aluine his purchase, he found the twenty deficient pages {\f his J\ientz Bible, in perfect order; brought them to Oxford witl'l the rest of his purchase, and placed them in the volume; but has too much a,ve for the Provi . dence that appears in bibliograppy also, to suffer the reunited parts to be re-bound. The oldest uuilding here is two hundred years younger than the frail manuscript brought by Dr. Clarke fronl Egypt. No candle or fire is i'ver lighted in the Bodleian. Its catalogue is the standard catalop:ue on the desk of every library in Oxford. In ea.ch several collee;e they underscore in red ink on this catalogue the titles of b00ks contained in the library of that college-the theory being that the Bodleian has all books. This rich library spent during the last year (1847), for the purchase of books, £1668. The logical English train a scholar as they train an engineer. Oxford is a Greek factory, as \,Vilton mills 'thJ'ea,"e carpet ana

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Sheffield grinds steel. They know the use of a tutor, as they know the use of a horse; and they draw the greatest amount of 'benefit out of both. The reading men are kept, by hard walking, hard riding and measured eating and drinking, at the top of their condition, and two days before the examination, do no work, but lounge, ride, or run, to be fresh on the college dOOlns.. day. Seven years' residence is the theoretic period for a master's degree. In point of fact, it has long been three years' residence, and four years more of standing. This "three years" is about twenty-one months in all. "The whole expense," says Professor Sewel, "of ordinary college tuition at Oxford, is about sixteen guineas a year." But this plausible statement may deceive a reader unacquainted with the fact that the principal teaching relied on is private tuition. And the expenses of private tuition are reckoned at from £50 to £70 ,1 year, or $IOOO for the whole course of three years and a half. A.t Cambridge, $750 a year is economical, and $1500 not extravagant. The number of students and of residents, the dignity of the luthorities, the value of the foundations, the history and the architecture, the known sympathy of entire Britain in what is done there, justify a dedication to study in the undergraduate such as cannot easily be in America, where his college is half suspected by the Freshman to be insignificant in the scale beside trade and politics. Oxford is a little aristocracy in itself, numerous and dignified enough to rank with other estates in the realm; and where fame and secular promotion are to be had for study, and in a direction which has the unanimous respect of all cultivated nations. This aristocracy, of course, repairs its own losses; fills places, as they fall vacant, from the body of students. The number of fellowships at Oxford is 540, averaging £200 a year, with lodging and diet at the college. If a young American, loving learning and hindered by poverty, were offered a home, a table, the walk~ and the library in one of these academical palaces, and a thousand dollars a year, as long as he chose to remain a bachelor, he would dance for joy, Yet these young men thus happily placed, and

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paid to read, are impatient of their few checks, and many of them preparing to resign their fellowships. They shuddered at the prospect of dying a Fellow, and they pointed out to me a paralytic old man, who was assisted into the hall. As the number of undergraduates at Oxford is only about 1200 or 1300, and many of these are never competitors, the chance of a fellowship is very great. The income of the nineteen colleges is conjectured at £150,000 a year. The effect of this drill is the radical knowledge of Greek and Latin and of mathematics, and the solidity and taste of English criticism. Whatever luck there may be in this or that award, an Eton captain can write Latin longs and short~, can turn the Court-Guide into hexameters, and it is certaiIl that a Senior Classic can quote correctly from the Corpus Poetarum and is critically learned in all the humanities. Greek erudition -exists on the Isis and Cam, whether the Maud man or the Brasenose man be properly ranked or not; the atmosphere is loaded with Greek learning; the whole river has reached a certain height, and kills all that growth of weeds which this Castalian water kills. The English nature takes culture kindly. So Milton thought. I t refines the Norseman. Access to the Greek mind Ii fts hisl, standard of taste. He has enough to think of, and, unless of an impulsive nature, is indisposed from writing or speaking, by the fulness of his mind and the new severity of his taste. The great silent crowd of thoroughbred Grecians always known to be around him, the English writer cannot ignore. They prune his orations and point his pen. Hence the style and tone of English journalism. The men have learned accuracy and comprehension, logic, and pace, or speed of working. They have bottom, endurance, wind. When born with good constitutions, they make those eupeptic studying-mills, the cast-iron men, the dura ilia, whose powers of performance compare with ours as the steam-hammer with the music-bax-Cokes, Mansfields, Seldens and Bentleys, and when it happens that a superior brain puts a rider on this admirable horse we obtain those masters of the world who com"j bine the highest energy in affairs with a supreme culture. It is contended by those who have been bred at Eton, Harrow,

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Rugby and '\tVestminster, that the public sentiment within each of those schools is high-toned and nlanly; that, in their playgrounds, courage is universally admired, meanness despised, manly feelings and generous conduct are encouraged: that an unwritten code of honor deals to the spoiled chilrl of rank and to the child of upstart wealth, an even-handed justice, purges their nonsense out of both and does all that can be done to make them gentlemen. Again, at the universities, it is urged that all goes io forr~1 what England values as the flower of its national life-a wtll-educated gentleman. The German Huber, in describing to his countrymen the attributes of an English gentleman, frankly admits that "in Germany, we have nothing of the kind. A gentlelnan lTIUst pos.. sess a political character, an independent and public position, or at least the right of assuming it. He must have average opu. . lence, either of his own, or in his family. l-Ie should also have bodily activity and strength, unattainable by our sedentary life in public offices. The race of English gentlemen presents an appearance of manly vigor and form not elsewhere to be found among an equal number of persons. No other nation produces the stock. And in England, it has deteriorated. The university is a decided presulnption in any man's favor. And so eminent are the members that a glance at the calendars ~'I'il1 show that in all the world one cannot be in better company than on the books Df one of the larger Oxford or Cambridge colleges." These seminaries are finishing schools for the upper classes, and not f01 the poor. The useful is exploded. The definition of a public school is "a school which excludes all that could fit a man for standing behind a counter." No doubt, the foundations have been perverted. Oxford, which equals in wealth several of the smaller European states, shuts up the lectureships which were made "public for all men thereunto to have concourse"; mis-spends the revenues bestowed for such yo~ths "as should be most meet for towardness, poverty and painfulness"; tnere is gross favoritism; many chairs and many fellowships are made beds of ease; and it is likely that the uni.. versit.y -v'll know how to resist and make inoperative the terrors

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of parlialnentary inquiry; no doubt their learning is grown obso.. lete-but Oxford also has its merits, and I found here also proof of the national fidelity and thoroughness. Such knowledge as' they prize they possess and inlpar1.. Whether in course or by indirection, whether by a cramming tutor or by examiners with prizes and foundational scholarships, education, according to the English notion of it, is arrived at. I looked over the Examination Papers of the year I 848, for the various scholarships and fellow..! ships, the Lusby, the Hertford, the Dean-Ireland and the Univer,j sity (copies of which were kinuly given me by a Greek professor), containing the tasks which many competitors had victoriously per formed, and I believed they would prove too severe tests for the candida.tes for a Bachelor's degree in Yale or Harvara. And in general, here was proof of a more searching study in the appointed directions, and the knowledge pretended to be conveyed was conveyed. Oxford sends out yearly twenty or thirty very able men and three or four hundred well-educated men. The diet and rough exercise secure a certain amount of old ,N'orse power. A fop will fight, and in exigent circumstances will play the manly part. In seeing these youths I believed I saw already an advantage in vigor and color and general babit, over their contemporaries in the American colleges. No doubt much of the power and brilliancy of the reading-men is merely consti. tutional or hygienic. \Vith a hardier ha.bit and resolute gymnastics, with five nliles morc walking, or five ounces less eating, or with a saddle and gallop of twenty nlilcs a day, with skatipg and rowing-matches, the Arnerican would arrive at as roLust e::~egesis and cheery and hilarious tone. I should readily concede these advantages, which it would be easy to acquire, if I did not find also that they read better than we, and write better. English wealth falling on their school and university trainingl, makes a systematic reading of the best authors, and to the end of a knowledge how the things whereof they treat really stand: whilst pamphleteer or journalist, reading for an argument for a party, or reading to write, or at all events for sonle by-end iln'"' posed on th~nl, IDust read meanly and fragmentarily. Charles 1

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self··respect, set bounds to serfdom and slavery, founded liberty, created the religious architecture-York, Newstead, Westmin. . ster, Fountains Abbey, Ripon, Beverley and Dundee-works to which the key is lost, with the sentiment which created them; inspired the English Bible, the liturgy, the monkish histories, the chronicle of Richard of Devizes. The priest translated the Vul.. gate, and translated the sanctities of old bagiology into English virtues en English ground. It was a certain affirmative or aggres . . sive state of the Caucasian races. Man awoke refreshed by the sleep of ages . The violence of the northern savages exasperated Christianity into power. It lived by the love of the people. Bishop Wilfrid manumitted two hundred and fifty serfs, whom he found attached to the soil. The clergy obtained respite from labor for the boor on the Sabbath and on church festivals. "The lord who compelled his boor to labor between sunset on Saturday and sunset on Sunday, forfeited him altogether." The priest came out of the people and sympathized with his class. The church was the mediator, check and democratic principle, in Europe. Latimer, Wicliffe, Arundel, Cobham, Antony Parsons, Sir Harry Vane, George Fox, Penn, Bunyan are the democrats, as well as the saints of their times. The Catholic Church, thrown on this toiling, serious people, has made in fourteen centuries a massive system, close fitted to the manners and genius of the country, at once domestical and stately. In the long time, it has blended with everything in heaven above and the earth beneath. It moves through a zodiac of feasts and fasts, names every day of the year, every town and market and headland and monument, and has coupled itself with the almanac, that no court can be held, no field ploughed, no horse shod, without some leave from the church. All maxims of prudence or shop or farm are fixed and dated by the church. Hence its strength in the agricultural districts. The distribution of land into parishes enforces a church sanction to every civil privilege; and the gradation of the clergy -prelates for the rich and curates for the poor-with the fact that a classical education has been secured to the clergyman, makes them "the link which unites the sequestered peasantry with the intellectual advancement of the age." t

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The English Church has many certificates to show of humble effective service in humanizing the people, in cheering and refining men, feeding, healing and educating. It has the seal of Inar'" tyrs and confessors; the noblest books; a sublime architecture; ~ ritual marked by the same secular merits, nothing cheap or pur..

chasable. From this slow-grown church important reactions proceed; much for culture, n1uch for giving a direction to the nation's affection and will to-day. The carved and pictured chapel-its entire surface animated with image and emblem-made the parish-church a sort of book and Bible to the people's eye. Then, when the Saxon instinct had secured a service in the vernacular tongue, it was the tutor and university of the people . In York minster, on the day of the enthronization of the new archbishop, I heard the service of evening prayer read and chanted in the choir. It was strange to hear the pretty pastoral of the betrothal of Rebecca and Isaac, in the morning of the world, read with circumstantiality in York n1inster, on the 13th January, 1848, to the decorous English audience, just fresh fron] the Times newspaper and their wine, and listening with all the devotion of national pride. That was binding old and new to SOlne purpose. The reverence fnr the Scriptures is an element of civilization, for thus has the history of the world been preserved and is preserved. Here in England every day a chapter of Genesis, and a leader in the Times. Another part of the sanle service on this occasion was not insignificant. Handel's coronation anthem, God save the King, was played by Dr. Camidge on the organ, with sublime effect. The minster and the music were made for each other. It was a hint of the part the church plays as a political engine. From his infancy, every Englishman is accustomed to bear daily prayers for the Queen, for the royal family and the Parliament, by name; and this lifelong consecration cannot be without influence on hi~ • • opInIons.

The universities also are parcel of the ecclesiastical systeln, and their first design is to form the clergy. Thus the clergy for a thousand years have been the scholars of the nation.

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The national temperament deeply enjoys the unbroken order and tradition of its church; the liturgy, ceremony, architecture; the sober grace, the good company, the connection with the throne and with history, which adorn it. And whilst it endears itself thus to nlen of more taste than activity, the stability of the English nation is passionately enlisted to its support, from its inextricable connection with the caU6e of public order, with politics and with the funds. Good churches are not built by bad men; at least there must be probity and enthusiasm somewhere in the society. These min.. sters were neither built nor filled bv . atheists. No church has had more learned, industrious or devoted men; plenty of "clerks and bishops, who, out of their gowns, would turn their backs on no man." Their architecture still glows with faith in immortality. Heats and genial periods arrive in history, or, shall we say, plenitudes of Divine Presence, by which high tides are caused in the human spirit, and great virtues and talents appear, as in the eleventh, twelfth, thirteenth, and again in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, when the nation was full of genius and piety. But the age of the Wiclifies, Cobhams, Arundels, Beckets; of the Latimers, Mores, Cranmers; of the Taylors, Leightons, Herberts; of the Sherlocks and Butlers, is gone. Silent revolutions in opinion have made it impossible that men like these should return, or find a place in their once sacred stalls. The spirit that dwelt in this church has glided away to animate other activities, and they who come to the old shrines find apes and players rustling the old garments. The religion of England is part of good-breeding. When you see on the continent the well-dressed Englishman come into his ambassador's chapel and put his face for silent prayer into his smooth-brushed hat, you cannot help feeling how much national pride prays with him, and the religion of a gentleman. So far is he from attaching any meaning to the words, that he believes himself to have done almost the generous thing, and that it is very condescending in him to pray to God. A great duke said on the occasion of a victory, in the House of Lords, that he thought

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the Almighty God had not been well used by them, and that it would become their magnanimity, after so great successes, to take order that a proper acknowledgment be made. It is the church of the gentry, but it is not the church of the poor. The operatives do not own it, and gentlemen lately testified in the House of Commons that in their lives they never saw a poor man in a ragged coat inside a church. The torpidity on the side of religion of the vigorous English understanding shows how much wit and folly can agree in one brain. Their religion is a quotation; their church is a doll; and any examination is interdicted with screams of terror. In good company you expect them to laugh at the fanaticism of the vulgar; but they do not; they are the vulgar. The English, in common perhaps with Christendom in the nineteenth century, do not respect power, but only performance; value ideas only for an economic result. Wellington esteems a saint only as far as he can be an army chaplain: "Mr. Briscoll, by his admirable conduct and good sense, got the better of Methodism, which had appeared anlong the soldiers and once among the officers." They value a philosopher as they value an apothecary who brings bark or a drench; and inspiration is only some blow-pipe, or a finer mechanical aid. I suspect that there is in an Englishman's brain a valve that can be closed at pleasure, as an engineer shuts off steam. The most sensible and well-informed men possess the power of thinking just so far as the bishop in reJigious matters, and as the chancellor of the exchequer in politics. They talk with courage and logic, and show you magnificent results, but the same men who have brought free trade or geology to their present standing, look grave and lofty and shut down their valve as soon as the can. . versation approaches the English Church. After that, you talk with a box-turtle. The action of the university, both in what is taught and in the spirit of the place, is directed more on producing an English gentleman, than a saint or a psychologist. It ripens a bishop, and extrudes a philosopher.. I do not know that there is more cabalism in the Anglican than in other churches, but the Anglican

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clergy are identified with the aristocracy. They say here, that if you talk with a clergyman, you are sure to find him well-bred, informed and candid: he entertains your thought or your project with sympathy and praise. But if a second clergyman come in, the sympathy is at an end: tVlO together are inaccessible to your thought, and whenever it comes to action, the c]ergyn1an invari.. ably sides with his church. The Anglican Church is marked by the grace and good sense of its forms, by the manly grace of its clergy. The gospel it preaches is 'By tast.e are ye saved.' It keeps the old structures in repair, spends a world of money in music and building, and in buying Pugin and architectural literature. It has a general good name for amenity and mildness. It is not in ordinary a persecuting church; it is not inquisitorial, not even inquisitive; is perfectly well-bred, and can shut its eyes on all proper occasions. If you let it alone, it will let you alone. But its instinct is hostile to all change in politics, literature, or social arts. The church has not been the founder of the London University, of the Mechanics' Institutes, of the Free School, of whatever aims at diffusion of knowledge. The Platonists of Oxford are as bitter against this heresy, as Thomas Taylor . The doctrine of the Old Testament is the religion of England. The first leaf of the New Testament it does not open. It believes in a Providence which does not treat with levity a pound sterling. They are neither transcendentalists nor Christians. They put up no Socratic prayer, much less any saintly prayer for the Queen's mind; ask neither for light nor right, but say bluntly, "Grant her in health and wealth long to live." And one traces this Jewish prayer in all English private history, from the prayers of King Richard, in Richard of Devizes' Chronicle, to those in the diaries of Sir Samuel Romillyand of Haydon the painter. "Abroad with my wife," writes Pepys piously, "the first time that ever I rode in my own coach; which do make my heart rejoice and praise God, and pray him to bless it to me, and continue it." The bin for the naturalization of the Jews (in 1753) was resisted by petitions from all parts of the kingdom, and by petition from the city of London, reprobating this bill, as "tending extremely to

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the dishonor of the Christian religion, and extremelY injurj(\us tc the interests and COlnmerce of the kingdom in genrral, and of the city of London in particular." But they have not been able to congeal hUlnanity by act of Parlialnent. ~'The heavens journey still and sojourn not," and arts, wars, discoveries and opinion go onward at their own pace. The new age has new desires, new enemies, new trades, new charities, and reads the Scriptures with new eyes. The chatter of French polltics, the steam-whistle, the hum of the mill and the noise of embarking emigrants had quite put most of the old legends out of mind; so that when you came to read the liturgy to a modern congregation, it was almost absurd in its unfitness, and suggested a masquerade of old costumes. No chemist has prospered in the attempt to crystallize a religion. It is endogenous, like the skin and other vital organs. A new statement every day. The prophet and apostle knew this, and the nonconformist confutes the conformists, by quoting the texts they must allow. It is the condition of a religion to require religion for its expositor. Prophet and apostle can only be rightly understood by prophet and apostle. The statesman knows that the religious element will not fail, any more than the supply 01 fibrine and chyle; but it is in its nature constructive, and will organize such a church as it wants. The wise legislator will spend. on temples, schools, libraries, colleges, but will shun the enriching of priests. If in any manner he can leave the election and paying of the priest to the people, he will do well. Like the Quakers, he may resist the separation of a class of priests, and. create opportunity and expectation in the society to run to meet natural endowment in this kind. But when wealth accrues to a chaplaincy, a bishopric, or rectorship, it requires moneyed men for its stewards, who will give it another direction than to the. mystics of their day. Of course, money will do after its kind, and will steadily work to unspiritualize and unchurch the people to whom it was bequeathed. The class certain to be excluded from all prefernlent are the religious-and driven to other churchesi which is nature's vis medicatrix. The curates are ill paid, and the prelates are overpaid. Thj,

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abuse draws into the church the children of the nobility and other unfit persons who have a taste for expense. Thus a bishop is only a surpliced merchant. Through his lawn I can see the bright buttons of the shopman's coat glitter. A wealth like that of Durham makes almost a premium 011 felony. Brougham, in a speech in the House of Commons on the Irish elective franchise, said, "How will the reverend bishops of the other house be able to express their due abhorrence of the crime of perjury, who solemnly declare in the presence of God that when they are called upon to accept a living, perhaps of £4000 a year, at that very instant they are moved by the Holy Ghost to accept the office and administration thereof, and for no other reason whatever?" The modes of initiation are more .damaging than customhouse oaths. The Bishop is elected by the Dean and Prebends of the cathedral. The Queen sends these gentlemen a conge d'elire, '.lr leave to elect; but. also sends them the name of the person whom they are to elect. They go into the cathedral, chant and pray and beseech the Holy Ghost to assist them in their choice; and, after these invocations, invariably find that the dictates of the Holy Ghost agree with the recommendations of the Queen. But you must pay for conformity. All goes well as long as you run with conformists. But you, who are an honest man in other particulars, know that there is alive somewhere a man whose honesty reaches to this point also that he shall not kneel to false gods, and on the day when you meet him, you sink into the class of counterfeits. Besides, this succumbing has grave penalties. If you take in a lie, you must take in all that belongs to it. England accepts this ornamented national church, and it glazes the eyes, bloats the flesh, gives the voice a stertorous clang, and clouds the understanding of the receivers. The English Church, undermined by German criticism, had nothing left but tradition; and was led logically back to Roman .. ism. But that was an element which only hot heads could breathe: jn view of the educated class, generally, it was not a fact to front the sun; and the alienation of such men from the church became complete. Nature, to be sure, had her remedy_ Religious persons are

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driven out of the Established Church into sects, which instant1r rise to credit and hold the Establishment in check. Nature has sharper remedies, also. The English, abhorring change in all things, abhorring it most in matters of religion, cling to the last rag of form, and are dreadfully given to cant. The English (and I wish it were confined to them, but 't is a taint in the AngloSaxon blood in both hemispheres)-the English and the Alnericans cant beyond all other nations. The French relinquish all that industry to thenl. What is so odious as the polite hows to God, in our books and newspapers? The popular press is flagitious in the exact measure of its sanctimony, and the religion of the day is a theatrical Sinai, where the thunders are supplied by the property-man. The fanaticis111 and hypocrisy create satire. Punch finds an inexhaustible n1aterial. Dickens writes novels on ExeterHall humanity. Thackeray exposes the heartless high life. Nature revenges herself more summarily by the heathenism of the lower classes. Lord Shaftesbury calls the poor thieves together and reads sermons to them, and they call it 'gas.' George Borrow summons the Gypsies to hear his discourse on the Hebrews in Egypt, and reads to them the Apostles' Creed in Romany. "When I had concluded)" he says, "I looked around me. The features of the assembly were twisted, and the eyes of all turned upon me with a frightful squint; not an individual present but squint~d; the genteel Pepa, the good-humored Chicharona, the Cosdami, all squinted; the Gypsy jockey squinted worst of all." The church at this moment is much to be pitied. She has nothing left but possession. If a bishop n1eets an intelligent gentleman and reads fatal interrogations in his eyes, he has no resource but to take wine with him. False position introduces cant, perjury, simony and ever a lower class of mind and character into the clergy: and, when the hierarchy is afraid of science and education, afraid of piety, afraid of tradition and afraid of theology, there is nothing left but to quit a church which is no longer oneBut the religion of England-is it the Established Church? no; is it the sects? no; they are only perpetuations of some private man's dissent, and are to the Established Church as cabs are to a coach, cheaper and more convenient, but really the same thi ng

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but sparingly; nor is a sentence made of Roman words alone, without loss of strength. The children and laborers use the Saxon unmixed. The Latin unmixed is abandoned to the colleges and Parliament. Mixture is a secret of the English island; and, in their dialect, the male principle is the Saxon, the female, the Latin; and they are combined in every discourse. A good writer, if he has indulged in a Roman roundness, makes haste to chasten and nerve his period by English monosyllables. When the Gothic nations came into Europe they found it lighted with the sun and moon of Hebrew and of Greek genius. The tablets of their brain, long kept in the dark, were finely sensible to the double glory. To the images from this twin source (of Christianity and art), the mind became fruitful as by the incubation of the Holy Ghost. The English mind flowered in every faculty. The commonest sense was surprised and inspired. For two centuries England was philosophic, religious, poetic. The mental furniture seemed of larger scale: the memory capacious like the storehouse of the rains. The ardor and endurance of study, the boldness and facility of their mental construction, their fancy and imagination and easy spanning of vast distances of thought, the enterprise or accosting of new subjects, and, gener .. ally, the easy exertion of power-astonish, like the legendary feats of Guy of Warwick. The union of Saxon precision and Oriental soaring, of which Shakspeare is the perfect example, is shared in less degree by the writers of two centuries. I find not only the great masters out of all rivalry and reach, but the whole writing of the time charged with a masculine force and freedom. There is a hygienic simpleness, rough vigor and closeness to the matter in hand even in the second and third class of writers; and, I think, in the common style of the people, as one finds it in the citation of wills, letters and public documents; in proverbs and forms of speech. The more hearty and sturdy expression may indicate that the savageness of the Norseman was not all gone. Their dynamic brains hurled off their words as the revolving 3tone hurls off scraps of grit. I could cite from the seventeenth century sentences and phrases of edge not to be matched in the nineteenth. Their poets by simple force of mind equalized them-

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selves with the accumulated science of ours. The country gentle .. men had a posset or drink they called October; and the poets, as if by this hint, knew how to distil the whole season into their autumnal verses: and as nature, to pique the more, sometimes works up deformities into beauty in some rare Aspasia or Cleopatra; and as the Greek art wrought many a vase or column, in which too long or too lithe, or nodes, or pits and flaws are made a beauty of-so these were so quick and vital that they could charm and enrich by mean and vulgar objects. A man must think that age well taught and thoughtful, by which masques and poems, like those of Ben Jonson, full of heroic sentiment in a manly style, were received with favor. The unique fact in literary history, the unsurprised reception of Shakspeare-the reception proved by his making his fortune; and the apathy proved by the absence of all contemporary pane gyric-seems to demonstrate an elevation in the mind of the people. Judge of the splendor of a nation by the insignificance of great individuals in it. The manner in which they learned Greek and Latin, before our modern facilities were yet ready; without dictionaries, grammars, or indexes, by lectures of a professor, followed by their own searchings-required a more robust mem ... ory, and cooperation of all the faculties; and their scholars, Camden, Usher, Selden, Mede, Gataker, Hooker, Taylor, Burton, Bentley, Brian Walton, acquired the solidity and method of • engIneers. The influence of Plato tinges the British genius. Their minds loved analogy; were cognizant of resemblances, and climbers on the staircase of unity. 'T is a very old strife between those who elect to see identity and those who elect to see discrepancies; and it renews itself in Britain. The poets, of course, are of one part; the men of the world, of the other. But Britain had many disciples of Plato-J\iore, Hooker, Bacon, Sidney, Lord Brooke, Herbert, Browne, Donne, Spenser, Chapman, Milton, Crashaw, Norris, Cudworth, Berkeley, Jeremy Taylor. Lord Bacon has the English duality. His centuries of observations on useful science, and his experiments, I suppose, were worth nothing. One hint of Franklin, or Watt, or Dalton, or J

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Davy, or anyone who had a talent for experiment, was worth all his lifetime of exquisite trifles. But he drinks of a diviner strealn, and Inarks the influx of idealism into England. Where that goes, is poetry, health and progress. The rules of its genesis or its diffusion are not known. That knowledge, if we had it, would supersede all that we call science of the mind. It seems an affair of race, or of meta-chemistry-the v,tal point being, how Jar the sense of unity, or instinct of seeking resemblances, prelominated . For wherever the mind takes a step, it is to put itself .Lt one with a larger class, discerned beyond the lesser class with \vhich it has been conversant . Hence, all poetry and 8.11 affirma.. tive action comes. Bacon, in the structure of his mind,. held of the analogists, of the idealists, or (as we popularly say, naming from the best example) Platonists. 'Vhoever discredits analogy and requires heaps of facts before any theories can be attempted, bas no poetic power, =3.nd nothing original or beautiful will be produced by hinl. Locke is as surely the influx of decomposition and of prose, as Bacon and the Platonists of growth. The Platonic is the poedc tendency, the so-called scientific is the negative and poisonous. 'T is quite certain that Spenser, Burns, Byron and Wordsworth will be Platonists, and that the dull men will be Lockists. Then politics and commerce will absorb from the educated class men of talents without genius, precisely because such have no resistance. Bacon, capable of ideas, yet devoted to ends, required in his map of the mind, first of all, universality, or prinza philosophia; the receptacle for all such profitable observations and a."doms as fall not within the compass of any of the special parts of philoso. . phy, but are more common and of a higher stage. He held this element essential: it is neve1 uut of mind: he never spares rebukes for such as neglect it; believing that no perfect discovery can be made in a flat or level, but you mnst ascend to a higher science. (~If any n1an thinketh philosophy and universality to be idle studies, he doth not consider that all professions are fronl thence ;served and supplied; and this I take to be a great cause that has hindered the progression of learning, because these fundamental

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knowledges have been studied but in passage." He explained himself by giving various quaint examples of the sumlnary or common laws of which each science has its own illustration. Ht' complains that "he finds this part of learning very deficient, the profounder sort of wits drawing a bucket now and then for their own use, but the spring-head unvisited. This was the dry light which did scorch and offend most lnen's watery natures." PlatG had signifIed the same sense, when he said, "All the great art3 require a subtle and speculative research into the law of nature, since loftiness of thought and perfect mastery over every subject seem to be derived from sonle such source as this. This Pericles had, in addition to a great natural genius. For, meeting with Anaxagoras, who was a person of this kind, he attached himself to him, and nourished hinlself with sublime speculations on the absolute intelligence; and imported thence into t.he oratorjcal art whatever could be useful to it." A few generalizations always circulate in the world, whose authors we do not rightly know, whlch astonish, and appear to b~ avenues to vast kingdc ]TIS of thought, ana these are in the world constants, like the Copernican and Newtonian theories in physics. in England these may be traced usuaily to Shakspeare, Bacon, Milton, or Hooker, even to Van Helmont and Behmen, and do all have a kind of filial retrospect to Plato and the Greeks. Of this kind is Lord Bacon's sentence, that "Nature is commanded by obeying her"; his doctrine of poetry, which "accommodates the shows of things (0 the desires of the lnind," or the Zoroastrian definition of poetry, Inystical, yet exact, "apparent pictures of unapparent natures"; Spenser's creed that C~soul is \ form, and doth the body make"; the theory of Berkeley, that we have no certain assurance of the existence of matter; Doctor Samuel Clarke's argument for theism from the nature of space and time; Harrington's political rule that power nlust rest on land-a rule which requires to be liberally interpreted; the theory of Swedenborg, so cosmically applied by hiln, that the man makes his heaven and hell; Hegel's study of civil history, as the conflict of ideas and the victory of the deeper thought; the identityJ?hilosophy of Schelling, couched in the statement that "aU dif.. I

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ference is quantitative." So the very announcement of the theory of gravitation, of Kepler's three harmonic laws, and even of Dalton's doctrine of definite proportions, finds a sudden response in the mind, which remains a superior evidence to empirical demonstrations. I cite these generalizations, some of which are more recent, merely to indicate a class. Not these particulars, but the mental plane or the atmosphere from which they emanate was the home and element of the writers and readers in what we loosely call the Elizabethan age (say, in literary history, the period from 157 5 to 1625), yet a period almost short enough to justify Ben Jonson's remark on Lord Bacon-"About his time, .and within his view, were born all the wits that could honor a llation, or help study." Such richness of genius had not existed more than once before. These heights could not be maintained. As we find stuInps of vast trees in our exhausted soils, and have received traditions of their ancient fertility to tillage, so history reckons epochs in which the intellect of famed races became effete. So it fared with English genius. These heights were followed by a meanness and a descent of the mind into lower levels; the loss of wings; no high speCUlation. Locke, to whom the Ineaning of ideas was unknown, became the type of philc'Sophy, and his "understanding" the measure, in all nations, of the English intellect. His countrymen forsook the lofty sides of Parnassus, on which they had once walked with echoing steps, and disused the studies once so beloved; the powers of thought fell into neglect. The later Eng. . lish want the faculty of Plato and Aristotle, of grouping men in natural classes by an insight of general laws, so deep that the rule is deduced with equal precision from few subjects, or frorrt one, as from multitudes of lives. Shakspeare is supreme in that, as in all the great mental energies. The Germans generalize: the English cannot interpret the German mind. German science comprehends the English. The absence of the faculty in England is shown by the timidity which accumulates mountains of facts, as a bad general wants myriads of men and Iniles of redoubts p..., I:ompensate the inspirations of courage and conduct. The English shrink. from a generalization. "They do not look

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abroad into universality, or they draw only a bucketful at the fountain of the First Philosophy for their occasion, and do not go to the spring-head." Bacon, who said this, is almost unique among his countrymen in that faculty; at least among the prose.. writers. Milton, who was the stair or high table-land to let down the English genius from the summits of Shakspeare, used this privilege sometimes in poetry, more rarely in prose. For a long interval afterwards, it is not found. Burke was addicted to generalizing, but his was a shorter line; as his thoughts have less depth, they have less compass. Hume's abstractions are not deep or wise. He owes his fame to one keen observation, that no copula had been detected between any cause and effect, either in physics or in thought; that the term cause and effect was loosely or gratuitously applied to what we know only as consecutive, not at all as causal. Doctor Johnson's written abstractions have little value; the tone of feeling in them makes their chief worth. Mr. Hallam, a learned and elegant scholar, has written the history of European literature for three centuries-a performance of great ambition, inasmuch as a judgment \vas to be attempted on every book. But his eye does not reach to the ideal standards: the verdicts are all dated froln London; all new thought must be cast into the old moulds. The expansive element which creates literature is steadily denied. Plato is resisted, and his school. Hallam is uniformly polite, but with deficient synlpathy; writes with resolute generosity, but is unconscious of the deep worth which lies in the mystics, and which often outvalues as a seed of power and a source 0 f revolution all the correct writers and shining reputations of their day_ He passes in silence, or dismisses with a kind of contempt, the pro founder masters: a lover of ideas is not only uncongenial, but unintelligible. Hallam inspires respect by his knowledge and fidelity, by his manifest love of good books, and he lifts himself to own better than almost any the gre')~ess of Shakspeare, and better than Johnson he appre· ciates MiTton. But in I-fallam, or in the firmer intellectual nervi: of Mackintosh, one still finds the same type of English geniUS. It is wise and rich, but it lives on its capital. It is retrospective. How can it discern and hail the new forms that are looming uy,

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on tbe horizon, new and gigantic thoughts Nhich cannot dress themselves "Jut of any old wardrobe of the past? The essays, the fiction and the poetry of the day have the like municipal Ihnits. Dickens, with preternatural apprehension of the language of manners and the varieties of street life; with pathos and laughter, wiih patriotic and still enlarging generosity, writes London tracts. He is a painter of English details, like Hogarth; local and temporary in his tints and style, and local in his aims. Bulwer, an industrious writer, with occasional ability, is distinguished for his reverence of intellect as a temporality, and appeals to the worldly ambition of the student. His romances tend to fan these low flames. Their novelists despair of the heart. Thackeray finds that God has made no allowance for the poor thing in his universe-mare's the pity, he thinks-but 't is not for us to be wiser; we must renounce ideals and accept London. The brilliant Macaulay, who expresses the tone of the English governing classes of the day, explicitly teaches that gooJ, means good to eat, good to wear, '~llaterial commodity; that the glory of modern philosophy is its direction on "fruit"; to yield economical inventions; and that its merit is to avoid ideas and avoid morals. He thinks it the distinctive merit of the Baconian philosophy in its triumph over the old Platonic, its disentangling the intellect from theories of the all-Fair and all-Good, and pin~ ning it down to the making a better sick chair and a better wine ..whey for an invalid-this not ironically, but. in good faith-that, "solid advantage," as he calls it, meaning always sensual benefit, is the only good. The eminent benefit of astron.. ~my is the better. navigation it creates to enable the fruit-ships to bring home their lemons and wine to the London grocero It was a curious result, in which the civility and religion of England for a thousand years ends in denying 1110rals and reducing the intellect to a sauce-pan. The critic hides his skepticism under the English cant of pracdcal. To convince the reason, to touch the conscience, is romblltic pretension. The fine arts fall to the ground. Beauty, except as lu..-xurious commodity, does not exist. , It is very certain, I may say in passing, that if Lord Bacon had been only the sensualist his critic pretends: he would never

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have acquired the fame which now entitles him to this patron.. age. It is because be had imagination, the leisures of the spirit, and basked in an element of contemplation out of all modern English atmospheric gauges, that he is impressive to the imagina. tions of nlen and has b(!come a potentate not to be ignored. Sir David Brewster sees the high place of Bacon, without finding Newton indebted to him, a,!1d thinks it a misLake. Bacon occupies it by specific gravity or levity, 110t by any feat he did, or by any tutoring more or less of Newton, etc., but as an effect of the same cause which showed itself more pronounced afterward..> in Hooke, Boyle and Halley. Coleridge, a catholic mind, with a hunger for ideas; with eyes looking before and after to the highest bards and sages, and who wrote and spoke the only high criticism in his tilne, is one of those who save England from the reproach of no longer possessing the capacity to appreciate what rarest wit the island has yielded. Yet the misfortune of his life, his vast attenlpts but most inadequate performings, failing to accomplish anyone masterpiece-seems to mark the closing of an era. Even in him, the traditional Englishman was too strong for the philosopher, and he fell into accommodations,. and as Burke had striven to idealize the English State, so Coleridge 'narrowed his mind' in the attempt to reconcile the Gothic rule and dogn1a of the Anglican Church, with eternal ideas. But for Coleridge, and a lurk.ing taciturn minority uttering itself in occasional criticism, oftener in private discourse, one would say that in Germany and in America is the best mind in England rightly respected. It is the surest sign of national decay, when the Brahmins can no longer read or understand the Brahminical philosophy. In the decomposition and asphyxia that followed all this materialism, Carlyle ,vas driven by his disgust at the pettiness and the cant, into the preaching of Fate. In comparison with all this rottenness, any check, any cleansing, though by fire, seemed desirable and beautiful. He saw little difference in the gladiators, or "the causes" for which they combated; the one comfort was, that they were all going speedily into the abyss together. And ~is imaginatjon, finding no nutrin1ent in any crea ..

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tion, avenged itself by celebrating the majestic beauty of the laws of decay. The necessities of mental structure force all minds into a few categories; and where impatience of the tricks of men makes Nemesis amiable, and builds altars to the negative Deity, the inevitable recoil is to heroism or the gal~ lantry of the private heart, which decks its immolation with glory, in the unequal combat of will against fate. Wilkinson, the editor of Swedenborg, the annotator of Fourier and the champion of Hahnemann, has brought to metaphysics and to physiology a native vigor, with a catholic perception of relations, equal to the highest attempts, and a rhetoric like the armory of the invincible knights of old. There is in the action of his mind a long Atlantic roll not known except in deepest waters, and only lacking what ought to accompany such powers, a manifest centrality. If his mind does not rest in immovable biases, perhaps the orbit is larger and the return is not yet: but a master should inspire a confidence that he will adhere to his convictions and give his present studies always the same high place. It would be easy to add exceptions to the limitary tone of English thought, and much more easy to adduce examples of excellence in particular veins; and if, going out of the region of dogma, we pass into that of general culture, there is no end to the graces and amenities, wit, sensibility and erudition of the learned class. But the artificial succor which marks all English performance appears in letters also: much of their resthetic production is antiquarian and manufactured, and literary reputations have been achieved by forcible men, whose relation to literature was purely accidental, but who were driven by tastes and modes they found in vogue into their several careers. So, at this moment, every ambitious young man studies geology: so members of Parliament are made, and churchmen. The bias of Englishmen to practical skill has reacted on the national mind. They are incapable of an inutility, and respect the five mechanic powers even in their song. The voice of their modern. muse has a slight hint of the steam~whistle , and the poem IS created as an ornament and finish of their monarchy,

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and by no means as the bird of a new morning which forget~ the past world in the full enjoyment of that which is forming . They are with difficulty ideal; they are the most conditionedl men, as if, having the best conditions, they could not bring themselves to forfeit theIne Everyone of them is a thousand yearH old and lives by his memory: and when you say this, they • • accept It as pralse_ Nothing comes to the book..shops but politics, travels, sta'l tistics, tabulation and engineering; and even what is called philosophy and letters is mechanical in its structure, as if in·, spiration had ceased, as if no vast hope, no religion, no song of joy, no wisdom, no analogy existed any more. The tone of colleges and of scholars and of literary society has this mortal air. I seem to walk on a marble floor, where nothing will grow. They exert every variety of talent on a lower ground and may be said to live and act in a sub ..mind. They have lost all command;ng views in literature, philosophy and science. A good Englishman shuts hilnself out of three fourths of his mind and confines himself to one fourth. He has learning, good sense~ power of labor, and logic; but a faith in the laws of the mind like that of Archimedes; a belief like that of Euler and Kepler, that experience must follow and not lead the laws of the mind; a devotion to the theory of politics like that of Hooker and Milton and Harrington, the modern English mind repudiates. I fear the same fault lies in their science, since they have known how to make it repulsive and bereave nature of its charm-though perhaps the complaint flies wider, and the vice attaches to many nlore than to British physicists. The eye of the naturalist must have a scope like nature itself, a susceptibility to all impressions, alive to the heart as well as to the logic of creation. But English science puts humanity to the door. It wants the connection which is the test of genius. The science is false by not being poetic. It isolates the reptile or mollusk it assun1es to explain; whilst reptile or mollusk only exists in system, in relation. The poet only sees it as an inevitable step in the path of the Creator But, in England, one hermit finds this fact, and another finds that, and lives and dies w

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ignorant of its value. There are great exceptions, of John Hun.. ter, a n1an of ideas; perhaps of Robert Brown, the botanist; and of Richard OV'len, who has imported into Britain the German homologies, and enriched science with contributions of his own, adding sometimes the divination of the old masters to the unbroken power of labor in the English rnind. But for the most part the natural science in England is out of its loyal alliance with morals, and is as void of imagination and free play of thought as conveyancing. It stands in strong contrast with the genius of the Germans, those semi-Greeks, who love analogy, and, by Ineans of their height of view, preserve their enthusiasm and thin1{ for Europe. No hope, no sublhne augury cheers the student, 110 secure striding from experiment onward to a foreseen law, but only a casual dipping here and there, like diggers in California "prospecting for a placer" that will pay. A horizon of brass of the diameter of his umbrella shuts down around his senses. Squalid contentment with conventions, satire at the names of philosophy and religion, parochial and shop-till politics, and idolatry of llsage, betray the ebb of life and spirit. As they tralnple on nationalities to reproduce London and Londoners in Europe and Asia, so they fear the hostility of ideas, of poetry, of religion-ghosts which they cannot lay; and, having attempted to domesticate and dress the Blessed Soul itself in English broadcloth and gaiters, they are tormented with fear that herein lurks a force that will sweep their system away. The artists say, "Nature puts them out"; the scholars have become unideal. They parry earnest speech with banter and levity; they laugh you down, or they change the subject. "The fact is," say they over their vvine, "all that about liberty, and so forth, is gone by; it won:'t do any longer." The practical and comfortable oppress them with inexorable claims, and the smallest fraction of power remains for heroism and poetry. No poet dares murmur of beauty out of the precinct of his rhytnes. No priest dares hint at a Providence which does not respect English utility. The island is a roaring volcano of fate, of material values, of tariffs and laws of repression, glutted markets and low prices.

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In the absence of the highest aims, of the pure love of knowl~ edge and the surrender to nature, there is the suppression of the imagination~ the priapism of the senses and the understanding; we have the factitious instead of the natural; tasteless expense, arts of comfort, and the rewarding as all illustrious inventor whosoever will contrive one impediIneni more to interpose between the man and his objects. Thus poetry is degraded and nlade ornamental. Pope and his school wrote poetry fit to put round frosted cake. What did Walter Scott write without stint? a rhymed traveller's guide to Scotland. And the libraries of verses they print have this Birmingham character. How many volumes of well-bred metre we must jingle through, before we can be filled, taught, renewed! We want the miraculous; the beauty which we can nlanufacture at no nliU-can give no account of; the beauty of which Chaucer and Chapman had the secret. The poetry of course is low and prosaic; only now and then, as in Wordsworth, conscientious; or in Byron, passional; or in Tennyson, factitious. But if I should count the poets who have contributed to the Bible of existing England sentences of guidance and consolation which are still glowing and effective-how few! Shall I find my heav· enly bread in the reigning poets? Where is great design in modern English poetry? The English have lost sight of the fact that poetry exists to speak the spiritual law, and that no wealth of description or of fancy is yet essentially new ancl out of the limits of prose, until this condition is reached. There. fore the grave old poets, like the Greek artists, heeded theiI designs, and less considered the finish. It was their office to lead to the divine sources, out of vvhich all this, and much more, readily springs; and, if this religion is in the poetry, it raises us to some purpose and we can well afford some staidness or hardness, or want of popular tune in the verses. The exc~ptional fact of the period is the genius of Words~ worth. He had no master but nature and solitude. "He wrote a poem," says Landor, "without the aid of war." His verse is the voice of sanity in a worldly and ambitious age. One regrets that his temperament was not more liquid and musical. He has written

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longer than he was inspired. But for the rest, he has no com-: petitor. Tennyson is endowed precisely in points where Wordsworth wanted. There is no finer ear, nor more command of the keys of language. Color, like the dawn, flows over the horizon from his pencil, in waves so rich that we do not miss the central form. Through all his refinements, too, he has reached the public -a certificate of good sense and general power, since he who aspires to be the English poet must be as large as London, not in the same kind as London, but in his own kind. But he wants a subject, and climbs no mount of vision to bring its secrets to the people. He contents himself with describing the Englishman as he is, and proposes no better. There are all degrees in poetry and we must be thankful for every beautiful talent. But it is only a first success, when the ear is gained. The best office of the best poets has been to show how low and uninspired was their general style, and that only once or twice they have struck the high chord. That expansiveness which is the essence of the poetic element, they have not. It was no Oxonian, but Hafiz, who said, "Let us be crowned with roses, let us drink wine, and break up the tiresome old roof of heaven into new forms." A stanza of the song of nature the Oxonian has no ear for, and he does not value the salient and curative influence of intellectual action, studious of truth without a by-end. By the law of contraries, I look for an irresistible taste for Orientalism in Britain. For a self-conceited modish life, made up of trifles, clinging to a corporeal civilization, hating ideas, there is no remedy like the Oriental largeness. That astonishes and disconcerts English decorum. For once, there is thunder it never heard, light it never saw, and power which trifles with time and space. I am not surprised then to find an Englishman like Warren Hastings, who had been struck with the grand style of thinking in the Indian writings, deprecating the iJrejudices of his countrymen while offering them a translation of the Bhagvat "1fight I, an unlettered man, venture to prescribe bounds to the latitude of criticism, I should exclude, in estimating the merit

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of such a production, all rules drawn from the ancient or modern literature of Europe, all references to such sentiments or manners as are become the standards of propriety for opinion and action in our own modes, and, equally, all appeals to our revealed tenets of religion and moral duty." He goes to be. . speak indulgence to "ornaments of fancy unsuited to our taste, and passages elevated to a tract of sublimity into which our habits of judgment will find it difficult to pursue them." Meantime, I know that a retrieving power lies in the English race which seems to Inake any recoil possible; in other words, there is at all times a minority of profound minds exist.. ing in the nation, capable of appreciating every soaring of intellect and every hint of tendency. While the constructive talent seems dwarfed and superficial, the criticism is often in the noblest tone and suggests the presence of the invisible gods. I can well believe what I have often heard, that there are two nations in England; but it is not the Poor and the Rich, nor is it the Normans and Saxons, nor the Celt and the Goth" These are each always becoming the other; for Robert OweJl does not exaggerate the power of circumstance. But the two complexions, or two styles of mind-the perceptive class, and the practical finality class-~re ever in counterpoise, inter.. acting mutually: one in hopeless minorities; the other in huge masses; one studious, contemplative, experimenting; the other: the ungrateful pupil, scornful of the source whilst availing itseH of the knowledge for gain; these two nations, of genius and oi animal force, though the first consist of only a dozen souls and the second of twenty millions, forever by their discord and their accord yield the power of the English State. I

CHAPTER XV THE TIMES

power of the newspaper is familiar in America and in ac""' cordance with our political system. In England, it stands in

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antagonism with the feudal institutions, and it is all the more beneficent succor against the secretive tendencies of a monarchy. The celebrated Lord Sonlers "knew of no good law proposed and passed in his time, to which the public papers had not directed his attention." There is no corner an~ no night. A relentless inquisition drags every secret to the day, turns the glare of this solar microscope on every malfaisance, so as to make the public a more terrible spy than any foreigner; and no weakness can be taken advantage of by an enemy, since the whole people are already forewarned. Thus England rids herself of those jncrustations which have been the ruin of old states. Of course, this inspection is feared. No antique privilege, no comfortable monopoly, but sees surely that its days are counted; the people are familiarized with the reason of reform, and, one by one, take away every argument of the obstructives. "So your grace likes the comfort of reading the newspapers," said Lord Mansfield to the Duke of Northumberland; "mark my words; you and I shall not live to see it, but this young gentleman (Lord Eldon) may, or it may be a little later; but a little sooner or later, these newspapers will most assuredly write the dukes of Northumberland out of their titles and possessions, and the country out of its king." The ten.dency in England towards social and political institutions like those of America, is inevitable, and the ability of its journals is the driving force. England is full of manly, clever, well-bred men Qrbo possess the talent of writing off-band pungent paragraphs, expressing with clearness and courage their opinion on any person or per. . formance. Valuable or not, it is a skill that is rarely found, out of the English journals. The English do this, as they write poetry, as they ride and box, by being educated to it. Hundreds of clever Praeds and Freres and Fraudes and Iioods and Hooks and l\1aginns and l\Iills and l\1acaulays, make poems, or short essays for a journal, e.s they make speeches in Parliament and on the hustings, or as they shoot and ride. It is a quite accidental and arbitrary direction of their general ability. Rude health and spir.. its, an Oxford education and the habits of society are implied, but not a ray of genius. It comes of the crowded state of the

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professions, the violent interest which all men take in politics, the facility of experimenting in the journals, and high pay. The most conspicuous result of this talent is the 1""imes ne';vs. . paper. No power in England is n10re felt, more feared, or more obeyed. What you read in the morning in that journal, you shall hear in the evening in all society. It has ears everywhere, and its information is earliest, completest and surest. It has risen 1 year by year, and victory by victorY1 to its present authority. I asked one of its old contributors whether it had once beell abler than it is now? "Never," he said; "these are its palmiest days." It has shown those qualities which are dear to Englisb. men, unflinching adherence to its objects, prodigal intellectual ability and a towering assurance, backed by the perfect organization in its printing-house and its world-wide network Ot corre. . spondence and reports. It has its 0wn history and famous trophies. In 1820, it adopted the cause of Queen Caroline, and carried it aga.inst the king. It adopted a poor-law system, and almost alone lifted it through. When Lord Broughan1 was in power, it decided against him, and pulled hin1 dO'Vll. It declareo war against Ireland, and conquered it. It adopted the League against the Corn La\vs, and, when Cobden had begun to despair, it announced his triumph. It denounced and discredited the French Republic of r848, and checked every sympathy with it in England, until it had enrolled 200,000 special constables to watch the Chartists and make thens. nuIcuJous on the loth April. It first denouncerl and then anopted the new French Empire, and urged the French AIliaG~c dnd its results. It has entered into each nlunicipal, literary ··lr cl sociaJ question, aln10st with a controlling voice. It has dCHe i)"Lt! and sc-asonahle service in exposing frauds which threatC'n~,~, the con11nercial commu.. nity. Meantime, it attacks its rivaL:, by perfecting its printing machinery, and will drive them out of circulation: for the only limit to the circul~tion of The Tin1es is the in1possibility of printing copies fast enough; since a daily paper can only be new .and seasonable for a few hours. It will kill all but that paper which is diametrically in opposition; since many papers, first and last, have lived by their attacks on the leading journal.

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The late Mr. Walter was printer of The Times, and had grad. ually arranged the whole materiel of it in perfect system. It is told that when he demanded a small share in the proprietary and was refused, he said, "As you please, gentlemen; and you may take away The Times from this office when you will; I shall publish The New Times next Monday morning." The proprietors, who had already complained that his charges for printmg were excessive, found that they were in his power, and gave him whatever he wished. I went one day with a good friend to The Times office, which was entered through a pretty garden-yard in Printing-House Square. We walked with some circumspection, as if we were entering a powder-mill; but the door was opened by a mild old woman, and, by dint of some transmission of cards, we were at last conducted into the parlor of Mr. Morris, a very gentle person, with no hostile appearances. The statistics are now quite out of date, but I remember he told us that the daily printing was then 35,000 copies; that on the 1St March, 1848, the greatest number ever printed-54,000-were issued; that, since February, the daily circulation had increased by 8000 copies. The old press they were then using printed five or six thousand sheets per hour; the new machine, for which they were then building an engine, would print twelve thousand per hour. Our entertainer confided us to a courteous assistant to show us the establishment, in which, I think, they employed a hundred and twenty men. I remember I saw the reporters' room, in which they redact their hasty stenographs, but the editor's room, and who is in it, I did not see, though I shared the curi. . osity of mankind respecting it. The staff of The Times has always been made up of able men. Old vValter, Sterling, Bacon, Barnes, Alsiger, Horace Twiss, Jones Lloyd, John Oxenford, Mr. Mosely, Mr. Bailey, have contributed to its renown in their special departInents. But it has never wanted the first pens for occasional assistance. Its private information is ine."{plicable, and recalls the stories of Fouche'.; police, whose omniscience made it believed that the Empress Josephine must be in his pay_ It has mercantile and

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political correspondents in every foreign city, and its expresses outrun the despatches of the government. One hears anecdotes of the rise of its servants, as of the functionaries of the India House. I was told of the dexterity of one of its reporters, who, finding himself, on one occasion, where the magistrates had strictly forbidden reporters, put his hands into his coat-packetr and with pencil in one hand and tablet in the other, did his work. The influence of this journal is a recognized power in Europe, and, of course, none is nlore conscious of it than its conductors. The tone of its articles has often been the occasion of comment from the official organs of the continental courts, and sometimes the ground of diplomatic complaint. 'What would The Times say?' is a terror in Paris, in Berlin, in Vienna, in Copenhagen and in Nepaul. Its consummate discretion and success exhibit the English skill of combination. The daily paper is the work of many hands, chiefly, it is said, of young men recently frorr.t the University, and perhaps reading law in chambers in London. Hence the academic elegance and classic allusion which adorns its columns. Hence, too, the heat and gallantry of its onset. But the steadiness of the aim suggests the belief that this fire is directed and fed by older engineers; as if persons of exact infonnation, and with settled views of policy, supplied the writer~ with the basis of fact and the object to be attained, and availed themselves of their younger energy and eloquence to plead the cause. Both the council and the executive departments gain by this division. Of two men of equal ability, the one who does not write but keeps his eye on the course of public affairs, will have the higher judicial wisdom. B'ut the parts are kept in concert, all the articles appear to proceed from a single will. The Times never disapproves of what itself has said, or cripples itself by apology for the absence of the editor, or the indiscretion of him who held the pen. It speaks out bluff and bold, and sticks to what it says. It draws from any number of learned and skilful contributors; but a lnore learned and skilful person supervises, corrects, and co-ordinates. Of this closet, the secret does not transpire. No writer is suffered to claim the authorship of any paper; everything good, from whatever quarter, comes out editorially; and

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thus, by making the paper everything and those who write it nothing, the character and the awe of the journal gain. The English like it for its complete information. A statement of fact in The Times is as reliable as a citation from Hansard. Then they like its independence; they do not know, ,vhen they take it up, what their paper is going to say: but, above all, for the nationality and confidence of its tone. It thinks for them all; it is their understanding and day's ideal daguerreotyped. \Vhen I see them reading its columns, they seem to m~ becoming every moment more British. It has the national courage, not rash and petulant, but considerate and determined. No dignity or wealth is a shield from its assault. It attacks a duke as readily as a policeman, and with the most provoking airs of condescension. It makes rude work with the Board of Admiralty. The Bench of Bishops is still less safe. One bishop fares badly for his rapacity, and another for his bigotry, and a third for his courtliness. It addresses occasionally a hint to J\ofajesty itself, and sometimes a hint which is taken. There is an air of freedom even in their advertising columns, which speaks well for England to a foreigner. On the days when I arrived in London in 1847, I read, among the daily announcements, one offering a re\vard of fifty pounds to any person who would put a nobleman, described by name and title, late a n1ember of Parliament, into any county jail in England, he having been convicted of obtaining money under false pretences. \Vas never such arrogancy as the tone of this paper. Every slip of an Oxonian or Cantabrigian who writes his first leader assumes that we subdued the earth before we sat down to \vrite this particular Times. One would think the V\Torld was on its knees to The Thnes office for its daily breakfast. But this arrogance is calculated. \Vho would care for it, if it "surmised," or "dared to cOllfess," or "ventured to predict," etc.? No; it is so J and so it shall be. The morality and patriotism of The Times claim only to be representative, and by no means ideal. It gives the argument, not of the majority, but of the commanding class. Its editor£ know better than to defenr! Russia, or Austria, or English vested

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rights, on aLstract grounds. But they give a voice to the class. who at the mOlnent take the lead; and they have an instinct for finding where the power now lies, which is eternally shifting its banks. Sympathizing with, and speaking for the class that rules the hour, yet being apprised of every ground-swell, every Chartist resolution, every Church squabble, every strike in the mills, they detect the first tremblings of change. They watch the hard and bitter struggles of the authors of each liberal move-ment, year by year; watching them only to taunt. and obstruct them-until, at last, when they see that these have established their fact, that power is on the point of passing to them, they strike in with the voice of a monarch, astonish those whom they succor as much as those whom they desert, and make victory sure. Of course the aspirants see that The Times is une of the goods of fortune, not to be won but by winning their cause. Punch is equally an expression of English good sense, as the London Times. It is the comic version of the same sense. Many of its caricatures are equal to the best pamphlets, and will convey to the eye in an instant the popular view which was taken of each turn of public affairs. Its sketches are usually made by masterly hands, and sometimes with genius; the delight of every class, because uniformly guided by that taste which is tyrannical in England. It is a new trait of the nineteenth cen.. tury, that the wit and humor of England-as in Punch, so in the humorists, Jerrold, Dickens, Thackeray, Hood-have taken the direction of humanity and freedom. The Times, like every important institution, shows the way to a better. It is a living index of the colossal British power, Its existence honors the people \vho dare to print all they know,. dare to know all the facts and do not wish to be flattered by hiding the extent of the public disaster. There is always safety in valor. I wish I could add that this journal aspired to deserve the power it wields, by guidance of the public sentin1ent to the right. It is usually pretended, in Parliament and elsewhere, that the English press has a high tone-which it has not. It has an imperial tone, as of a powerful and independent nation. But, ae with other empires, its tone is prone to be official, and even

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officinaL The Times shares all the limitations of the governing classes , and wishes never to be in a minority. If only it dared to cleave to the right, to show the right to be the only expedient, and feed its batteries from the central heart of humanity, it might not have so many men of rank among its contributors, but genius would be its cordial and invincible ally; it might now and then bear the brunt of formidable combinations, but no journal is ruined by wise courage. It would be the natural leader of British reform; its proud function, that of being the voice of Europe, the defender of the exile and patriot against despots, would be more effectually discharged; it would have the authority which is claimed for that dream of good men not yet come to pass, an International Congress; and the least of its victories would be to give to England a new millennium of beneficent power.

CHAPTER XVI STONEHENGE

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been agreed between my friend Mr. Carlyle and me, that before I left England we should make an excursion together to Stonehenge, which neither of us had seen; and the project pleased my fancy with the double attraction of the monument and the companion. It seemed a bringing together of extreme points, to visit the oldest religious monument in Britain in com.. pany with her latest thinker, and one whose influence may be traced in every contemporary book. I was glad to sum up a little my experiences, and to exchange a few reasonable words on the aspects of England with a man on whose genius I set a very high value, and who had as much penetration and as severe a theory of duty as any person in it. On Friday, 7th July, we took the South Western Railway through Hampshire to Salisbury, where we found a carriage to convey us to Amesbury. The fine weather and my friend's local knowledge of Hampshire, in which he is wont to spend a part of every summer, made the way short. There was much to say, too, of the travelling Ameri.. HAD

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cans and their usual objects in London. I thought it natural that they should give some time to works of art collected here which they cannot find at home, and a little to scientific clubs and museums, which, at this moment, make London very at . . tractive. But Iny philosopher was not contented. Art and 'high art' is a favorite target for his wit. "Yes, Kunst is a great delusion, and Goethe and Schiller wasted a great deal of good time on it: "-and he thinks he discovers that old Goethe found this out, and, in his later writings, changed his tone. As soon as men begin to talk of art, architecture and antiquities, nothing good comes of it. He wishes to go through the British Museum in silence, and thinks a sincere man will see something and say nothing. In these days, he thought, it would become an architect to consult only the grim necessity, and say, 'I can build you a coffin for such dead persons as you are, and for such dead purposes as you have, but you shall have no ornament.' For the science, he had if possible even less tolerance, and compared the savants of Somerset House to the boy who asked Confucius "how many stars in the sky?" Confucius replied, "he minded things near him:" then said the boy, ('how many hairs are there in your eyebrows?" Confucius said, "he didn't know and didn't

care." Still speaking of the Americans, Carlyle complained that they dislike the coldness and exclusiveness of the English, and run away to France and go with their countrymen and are amused, instead of manfully staying in London, and confronting Englishmen and acquiring their culture, who really have much to teach them. I told Carlyle that I was easily dazzled, and was accustomed to concede readily all that an Englishman would ask; I saw everywhere in the country proofs of sense and spirit, and success of every sort: I like the people; they are as good as they are handsome; they ha ve everything and can do everything; but meantime, I surely know that as soon as I return to Massachusetts I shall lapse at once into the feeling, which the geography of America inevitably inspires, that we play the game with immense advantage; that there and not here is the seat and

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centre of the British race; and that no skill or activity can long conlpete with the prodigious natural advantages of that country, in the hands of the same race; and that England, an old and exhausted island, must one day be contented, like other parents, to be strong only in her children. But this vias a proposition whh:h no Englishman of whatever condition can easily entertain. \Ve left the train at Salisbury and took a carriage to ,Amesbury, passing by Old Sarurn, a bare, treeless hill, once containing the town which sent two members to Parliament-now, not a hut; and, arriving at Amesbury, stopped at the George Inn. After dinner we walked to Salisbury Plain. On the broad downs, under the gray sky, not a house was visible, nothing but Stonehenge, which looked like a group of brown dwarfs in the wide expanse-Stonehenge and the barro,Ys, which rose like green bosses about the plain. and a few hayricks. On the top of a moun.. tain, the old temple would not be more impressive. Far and wide a few shepherds with their flocks sprinkled the plain, and a bagman drove along the road. It looked as if the wide margin given in this crowded isle to this primeval temple ,\\"ere ac.. corded by the veneration of the British race to the old egg out of which all their ecclesiastical structures and history had proceeded. Stonehenge is a circular colonnade with a diameter of a hundred feet, and enclosing a second and a third colonnade within. \\1 e walked round the stones and clambered over them, to wont ourselves with their strange aspect and groupings, and found a nook sheltered from the wind among them, where Car.. lyle lighted his cigar. It was pleasant to see that just this simplest of all simple structures-two upright stones and a lintel laid across-had long outstood all later churches and all history, and were like what is most permru"lent on the face of the planet: these, and the barrows-mere mounds (of which there are a hundred and si~ty within a circle of three miles about Stonehenge), like the same mound on the plain of Troy, which still makes good to the passing mariner on Hellespont, the vaunt of Honler and the fame of Achilles. Within the enclosure grow but~ercups, nettles, and all around, wild thyme, daisy, meadowsweet, goldenrod, thistle and the carpeting grass. Over USJ lar~

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were soaring and singing-as my friend said, "the larks which were hatched last year, and the wind which was hatched :many thousand years ago." Vie counted and nleasured by paces the biggest stones, and soon knew as much as any man can suddenly know of the inscrutable teIllple. There are ninety-four stones, and there were once probably one hundred and sixty. The temple is circular and uncovered, and the situation fixed astr-onomically -the grand entrances, here and at Abury, being placed exactly northeast, "as all the gates of the old cavern temples are." How came the stones here? for these sarsens, or Druidical sandstones, are not found in this neighborhood. The sacrificial stone, as it is called, is the only one in all these blocks that can resist the action of fire, and as I read in the books, nlust have been brought one hundred and fifty miles. On alnl0st every stone we found the nlarks of the Inineralogist's hamlner and chisel. rfhe nineteen smaller stones of the inner circle are of granite. I, who had just conle fro111 Professor Sedgwick's Cambride M useurn of nlcgatheria and 111astodons, was ready to maintain that SOlne cleverer elephants or 111ylodonta had borne off and laid these rocks one on another. Only the good beasts must have known how to cut a well-wrought tenon and mortise, a.nd to smooth the surface of son1e of the stones. The chief nlys+~ry is, that any Inystery shonlr1 have been allowed to settle on so remarkable a nlonUlnent, in a country on wbich all the rnuses have kept their eyes now for eighteen hundred years. 'iVe are not yet too late to learn much more than is known of this structure. Some diligent Fellowes or Layard V\Tin arrive r stone by stone, at the whole history, by that exhaustive British sense and perseverance, so whimsical ill its choice of objects, which leaves its own Stonehenge or Choir Gaur to the rabbits, whilst it opens pyranlids and uncovers Nineveh. Stone . . henge, in virtue of the simplicity of its plan and its good preser·· vation, is as if new and recent; and, a thousand years hence, men will thank this age for the accurate history. vVe walked in and out and took again and again a fresh look at. the uncanny stones. The old sphinx put our petty differences of nationality out of sight. To these conscious stones we two pilgrims were n.li1r.e

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known and near. \Ve could equally well revere their old British meaning. My philosopher was subdued and gentle. In this quiet house of destiny he happens to say, "I plant cypresses wherever I go, and if I am in search of pain, I cannot go wrong." The spot, the gray blocks and their rude order, which refuses t'O be disposed of, suggested to him the flight of ages and the succession of religions. The old times of England impress Carlyle much: he reads little, he says, in these last years, but Acta Sanctorum ," the fifty-three volumes of which are in the London Library. He finds all English history therein. He can see, as he reads, the old Saint of lana sitting there and writing, a man to men . The Acta Sanctorum show plainly that the men of those times believed in God and in the immortality of the soul, as their abbeys and cathedrals testify: now, even the puritanism is all gone. London is pagan. He fancied that greater nlen had lived in England than any of her writers; and, in fact, about the time when those ~Triters appeared, the last of these were already gone. We left the mound in the twilight, with the design to return the next morning, and coming back two miles to our inn we were met by little showers, and late as it was, men and women were out attempting to protect their spread windows. The grass grows rank and dark in the showery England. At the inn, there was only milk for one cup of tea. 'Vhen we called for more, the girl brought us three drops. lVly friend was annoyed, who stood for the credit of an English inn, and still more the next morning, by the dog-cart, sole procurable vehicle, in which we were to be sent to 'Vilton. I engaged the local antiquary, Mr. Brown, to go with us to Stonehenge, on our way, and show us what he knew of the "astronomical" and "sacrificial" stones. I stood on the last, and he pointed to the upright, or rather, inclined stone, called the "astronomical," and bade me notice that its top ranged with the sky-line. "y"'es." Very well. Now, at the summer solstice, the sun rises exactly over the top of that stone, and, at the Druidical temple at Abury, there is also an astronomical stone, in the same relative position. In the silence of tradition, this one relation to science becomes

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an important clew; but we were content to leave the problem with the rocks. Was this the "Giants' Dance," which Merlin brought from Killaraus, in Ireland, to be Uther Pendragon's monument to the British nobles whom Hengist slaughtered here, as Geoffrey of Monmouth relates? or was it a Roman work, as Inigo Jones explained to King James; or identical in design and style with the East Indian temples of the sun, as Davies in the Celtic Researches Fnaintains? Of all the writers, Stukeley is the best. The heroic antiquary, charmed with the geometric perfec-tions of his ruin, connects it with the oldest monuments and religion of the world, and "vith the courage of his tribe, does not stick to say, "the Deity who made the world by the schelne of Stonehenge." He finds that the curs'Us on Salisbury Plain stretches across the downs like a line of latitude upon the globe, and the meridian line of Stonehenge passes exactly through the middle of this cursus. But here is the high point of the theory: ~he Druids had the magnet; laid their courses by it; their cardi ... nal points in Stonehenge, Ambresbury, and elsewhere, which vary a little from true east and west, followed the variations of the compass. The Druids were Phrenicians. The name of the magnet is lapis Heracleus, and Hercules was the god of the Phrenicians. Hercules, in the legend, drew his bow at the sun, and the sun-god gave him a golden cup, with which he sailed over the ocean. What was this, but a compass-box? This cup or little boat, in which the magnet was made to float on water and so show the north, was probably its first form, before it was suspended on a pin. But science was an arCan'lt1n, and; as Britain was a Phrenician secret, so they kept their compass a secret, and it was lost with the Tyrian commerce. The golden fleece again, of Jason, was the compass-a bit of loadstone, easily supposed to be the only one in the world, and therefore naturally awakening the cupidity and ambition of the young heroes of a maritime nation to join in an expedition to obtain possessio!" ',f this wise stone. Hence the fable that the ship Argo was loquacious and oracular. There is also some curious coincidence in the names. Apollodorus n1akes Magnes the son of Aeolus, who mar. . ried N ais. On hints like these, Stukeley build s again the grand

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colonnade into historic harmony, and computing backward by the known variations of the compass, bravely assigns the year 406 before Christ for the date of the temple. For the difficulty of handling and carrying stones of this size, the like is done in all cities, every day, with no other aid than horse-power. I chanced to see, a year ago, men at work on the substructure of a house in Bowdoin Square, in Boston, swinging a block of granite of the size of the largest of the Stonehenge columns~ with an ordinary derrick. The men ,\,\rere comillon masons, with paddies to help, nor dio they think they were doing anything remarkable. I suppose there were as good nlen a thousand years ago. And we ,vander how Stonehenge VtTas built and forgotten. After spending half an bour on the spot, we set forth in our dog-cart over the downs for ""Tilton, Carlyle not suppressing some threats and evil omens on the proprietors, for keeping these broad plains a wretched sheep-walk when so Inany thousands of English men were hungry and wanted labor. But I heard afterwards that it is not an economy to cultivate this la.nd, which only yields one croiJ on being broken up, and is then spoiled. We came to Wilton and to Vlilton Hall-the renowned seat of the Earls of Pembroke, a house kno,\\Tfl to Shakspeare and ]\tlassinger, the frequent home of Sir Philip Sidney, where he wrote the Arcadia; where he conversed with Lord Brooke, a man of deep thought, and a poet, who caused to be engraved on his tombstone, "Here lies Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke, the friend of Sir Philip Sidney." It is now the property of the Earl of Pembroke, and the residence of his brother, Sidney Herbert, Esq., and is esteemed a noble specinlen of the English manorhall. ~'ly friend had a letter from Mr. Herbert to his housekeeper, and the house was shown. The state drawing-room is a. double cube, 30 feet high, by 30 feet wide, by 60 feet long: the adjoining room is a single cube, of 30 feet every "ray. Although \hese apartments and the long library ~Tere full of good family portraits, v"'andykes and other; and though there were some good pictures, and a quadrangle cloister full of antique and modern statuary-to which Carlyle, catalogue in hand, did all

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too much justice-yet the eye was still drawn to the windows, to a magnificent lawn, on which grew the finest cedars in Eng .. land. I had not seen more charming grounds. We went out, and walked over the estate. We crossed a bridge built by Inigo Jones, over a stream of which the gardener did not know the name (Qu. Alph?); watched the deer; climbed to the lonely sculptured slunmer-house, on a hill backed by a wood; came down into the Italian garden and into a French pavilion garnished with French busts; and so again to the house, where we found a table laid for us with bread, meats, peaches, grapes and wine. On leaving vVilton House, we took. the coach for Salisbury. The Cathedral, which was finished six hundred years ago, has even a spruce and modern air, and its spire is the highest in England. I know not why, but I had been more struck with one of no fame, at Coventry, which rises three hundred feet from the ground, with the lightness of a mullein plant, and not at all implicated with the church. Salisbury is now esteemed the culmination of the Gothic art in England, as the buttresses are fully unmasked and honestly detailed frOIn the sides of the pile. The interior of the Cathedral is obstructed by the organ in the Iniddle, acting like a screen. I know not why in real architecture the hunger of the eye for length of line is so rarely gratified. The rule of art is that a colonnade is more beautiful the longer it is, and that ad infinitum. And the nave of a church is seldonl so long that it need be divided by a screen. We loitered in the church, outside the choir, whilst service was said. Whilst we listened to the organ, my friend renlarked, the music is good, and yet not quite religious, but somewhat as if a monk were panting to some fine Queen of Heaven. Carlyle was unwiJling, and we did not ask to have the choir shown us, but returned to our inn, after seeing another old church of the place. We passed in the train Clarendon Park., but could see little but the edge of a wood, though Carlyle had wished to pay closer attention to the birthpl.ace of the Decrees of Clarendon. At Bishopstoke we stopped, and found Mr. H., who received un in his carriage, and took us to his house at Bishops Waltham.

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On Sunday we had much discourse, on a very rainy day . My frjends asked, whether there were any Americans?-any with an American idea-any theory of the right future of that :ountry? Thus challenged, I bethought myself neither of caucuses nor congress, neither of presidents nor of cabinet-ministers, nor of such as would make of America another Europe. I thought only of the simplest and purest minds; I said, "Certainly yes-but those who hold it are fanatics of a dream which I should hardly care to relate to your English ears, to which it might be only ridiculous-and yet it is the only true." So I opened the dogma of no-government and non-resistance, and anticipated the objections and the fun, and procured a kind of hearing for it. I said, it is true that I have never seen in any country a man of sufficient valor to stand for this truth, and yet it is plain to me that no less valor than this can command my respect. I can easily see the bankruptcy of the vulgar musketworship-though great men be musket-worshippers-and 't is certain as God liveth, the gun that does not need another gun, the law of love and justice alone, can effect a clean revolution I fancied that one or two of my anecdotes made some impression on Carlyle, and I insisted that the manifest absurdity of the view to English feasibility could make no difference to a gentleman; that as to our secure tenure of our mutton-chop and spinach in London or in Boston, the soul might quote Talleyrand, "Monsieur, je n'en vois pas la necessite." As I had thus taken in the conversation the saint's part, when dinner was announced, Carlyle refused to go out before me-"he was altogether too wicked." I planted my back against the wall, and our host wittily rescued us from the dilemma, by saying he was the wickedest and would walk out first, then Carlyle followed, and I went last. On the way to \Vinchester, whither our host accompanied us in the afternoon, my friends asked many questions respecting American landscapes, forests, houses-my house, for example. It is not easy to answer these queries well. There, I thought, in America. lies nature sleeping, overgrowing, almost conscious, too much by half for man in the picture, and so giving a certain tristesse, like the rank. vegetation of swamps and forests seen

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at night, steeped in dews and rains, which it loves; and on it man seems not able to make much impression. There, in that great sloven continent, in high Alleghany pastures, in the seaw{de sky-skirted prairie, still sleeps and murmurs and hides the great mother, long since driven away from the trim hedge-rows and over-cultivated garden of England. And, in England, I am quite too sensible of this. Everyone is on his good behavior and must be dressed for dinner at six. So I put off my friends with very inadequate details, as best I could. Just before entering Winchester we stopped at the Church of Saint Cross, and after looking through the quaint antiquity, we demanded a piece of bread and a draught of beer, which the founder, Henry de Blois, in I I36, commanded should be given to everyone who should ask it at the gate. We had both, from the old couple who take care of the church. Some twenty people every day, they said, make the same demand. This hospitality of seven hundred years' standing did not hinder Carlyle from pronouncing a malediction on the priest who receives £2000 a year, that were meant for the poor, and spends a pittance on this small-beer and crumbs. In the Cathedral I was gratified, at least by the ample dimensions. The length of line exceeds that of any other English church; being 556 feet, by 250 in breadth of transept. I think I prefer this church to all I have seen, except Westminster and York. Here was Canute buried, and here Alfred the Great was crowned and buried, and here the Saxon kings;' and, later, in his own church, William of Wykeham. It is very old: part of the crypt into which we went down and saw the Saxon and Norman arches of the old church on which the present stands, was built fourteen or fifteen hundred years ago. Sharon Turner, in his History of the Anglo-Saxons, says, "Alfred was buried at Winchester, in the Abbey he had founded there, but his remains were removed by Henry I to the new Abbey in the meadows at Hyde, on the northern quarter of the city, and laid under the high altar. The building was destroyed at the Reformation, and what is left of Alfred's body now lies covered by modern buildings, or buried in the ruins of the ald." William of

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"Tykeham's shrine tomb was unlocked for us, and Carlyle took hold of the recumbent statue's marble hands and patted them affectionately, for he rightly values the brave man who built Windsor and this Cathedral and the School here and New College at Oxford. But it was growing late in the afternoon. Slowly we left the old house, and parting with our host, we took the train for London.

(:HAPTER XVII PERSONAL

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comments on an old journey, now revised after seven busy years have much changed men and things in England, I have abstained from reference to persons, except in the last chapter and in one or two cases where the fame of the parties seemed to have given the public a property in all that concerned them. I must further allow myself a few notices, if only as an ackno\vledgment of debts that cannot be paid. My journeys were cheered by so much kindness from new friends, that my impression of the island is bright with agreeable memories both of public societies and of households: and, what is nowhere better found than in England, a cultivated person fitly surrounded by a happy home, with THESE

"Honor, love, obedience, troops of friends," is of all institutions the best. At the landing in Liverpool I found my Manchester correspondent awaiting me, a gentleman whose kind reception was followed by a train of friendly and effective attentions which never rested whilst I remained in the country. A man of sense and of letters, the editor of a powerful local journal, he added to solid virtues an infinite s'\\"eetness and honhorllmie4 There seemed a pool of honey about his heart which lubricated all his speech and action with fine jets of mead. An equal good fortune attended many later accidents of nlY journey, until the sincerity of English kindness ceased to surprise. My visit fell in the fortunate days when Mr. Bancroft was the

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American Minister in London, and at his house, or through his good offices, I had easy access to excellent persons and to privj· leged places. At the house of Mr. Carlyle, I met persons e111inent in society and in letters. The privileges of the Athenreum and of the Reform Clubs were hospitably opened to nle, and I found much advantage in the circles of the 'L Geologic," the (' .l\ntiquar.. ian" and the "Royal" Societies. Every day in London gave me new opportunities of meeting men and women who give splendor to society. I saVtT Rogers, Hallam, lVlacaulay, IVlilnes, ~1i1nlan, Barry Cornwall, Dickens, Thackeray, Tennyson, Leigh Hunt, D'Israeli, Helps, Wilkinson, Bailey, Kenyon and Forster: the younger poets, Clough, Arnold and Patmore; and among the men of science, Robert Brown, Owen, Sedgwick, Faraday, Buckland, Lyell, De la Beche, Hooker, Carpenter, Babbage and Edward Forbes. It was Iny privilege also to converse with Miss Baillie, with Lady l\iorgan, with Mrs. Jameson and Mrs. Somerville. A finer hospitality made many private houses not les~ known and dear. It is not in distinguished circles that wisdom and elevated characters are usually found, or, if found, they are not confined thereto; and my recollections of the best hours go back to private conversations in different parts of the king. . dom, with persons little known. Nor am I insensible to the courtesy which frankly opened to me some noble mansions, if I do not adorn my page with their names. Anlong the privileges of London, I recall with pleasure t~·o or three signal days, on€' at Kew, where Sir Willialn Hooker showed me all the riches of the vast botanic garden; one at the l\luseum, where Sir Charles Fellowes explained in detail the history of his Ionic trophy-monument; and still another, on which Mr. Owen accom ... panied my countryman Mr. H. and myself through the Hun~ terian 1tluseum. The like frank hospitality, bent on real service, I found amon~ the great and the humble, '\rvherever I went; in Birmingham, in Oxford, in Leicester in Nottingham, in Sheffield, in IVlanchester, in Liverpool. At Edinburgh, through the kindness of Dr. SalTIuel Brown, I made the acquaintance of De Quincey, of Lord Jeffrey, of Wilson, of Mrs. Crowe, of the l\iessrs. Chambers, ;lnd of CL I

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man of high character and genius, the short-lived painter, DavId Scott. At Ambleside in March, I848, J was for a couple ot days the guest of Miss Martineau, then newly returned from her Egyptian tour. On Sunday afternoon I accompanied her to Rydal 11ount. And as I have recorded a visit to Wordsworth, many years before, I must not forget this second interview. We found Mr. \'Vordsworth asleep on the sofa. He was at first silent and indisposed, as an old man suddenly 1Naked before he had ended his nap; but soon became full of talk on the French news. He was nationally bitter on the French; bitter on Scotchmen, too. No Scotchman, he said, can write English. He detailed the two models, on one or the other of which all the sentences of the historian Robertson are framed. Nor could Jeffrey, nor the Edinburgh Reviewers write English, nor can *, who is a pest to the English tongue. Incidentally he added, Gibbon cannot write English. The Edinburgh Review wrote what would tell and what would sell. It had however changed the tone of its literary criticism from the time when a certain letter was written to the ~ditor by Coleridge. Mrs. \V. had the Editor's answer in her possession. Tennyson he thinks a right poetic genius, though with some affectation. He had thought an elder brother of Tennyson at first the better poet, but must now reckon Alfred the true one. . . . In speaking of I know not what style, he said, "to be sure, it was the manner, but then you know the matter always comes out of the manner." ... He thought Rio Janeiro the best place in the world lor a great capital city .... We talked of English national character. I told him it was not creditable that no one in all the country knew anything of Thomas Taylor, the Platonist, whilst in every American library his translations are found. I said, If Plato's Republic were pub.. lished in England as a new book to-day, do you think it would find any readers?-he confessed it would not: "And yet," he added after a pause, with that complacency which never deserts a true-born Englishman, "and yet we have embodied it all." His opinions of French, English, Irish and Scotch, seemed rashly formulized from little anecdotes of what had befallen

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himself and members of his family, in a diligence or stage.. coach. His face sometimes lighted up, but his conversation was not marked by special force or elevation. Yet perhaps it is a high compliment to the cultivation of the English generally, when we find such a man not distinguished. He had a healthy look, with a "\veather-beaten face, his face corrugated, especially the large nose. Miss Martineau, who lived near him, praised him to me not for his poetry, but for thrift and economy; for having afforded to his country-neighbors an example of a modest household where comfort and culture were secured without any display. She said that in his early housekeeping at the cottage where he first lived, he was accustomed to offer his friends bread and plainest fare; if they wanted anything nlore, they must pay him for their board. It was the rule of the house. I replied that it evinced English pluck more than any anecdote I knew. A gentleman in the neighborhood told the story of Walter Scott's staying once for a week with Wordsworth, and slipping out every day, under pretence of a walk, to the Swan Inn for a cold cut and porter; and one day passing with Wordsworth the inn, he was betrayed by the landlord's asking him if he had come far his porter. Of course this trait would have another look in London, and there you will hear from different literary men that Wordsworth had no personal friend, that he was not amiable, that he was parsimonious, etc. Landor, always generolls, says that he never praised anybody. A gentleman in London showed me a watch that once belonged to Milton, whose initials are engraved on its face. He said he once showed this to Wordsworth, who took it in one hand, then drew out his own watch and held it up with the other, before the company, but no one making the expected remark, he put back his own in silence. I do not attach much importance to the disparagement of Wordsworth among London scholars. Who reads him well will know that in iollowing the strong bent of his genius, he was careless of the many, careless also of the few, self-assured that he should "create the taste by which he is to be enjoyed." He lived long enough to witness the revolution he had wrought, and to "see what he

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foresaw." Thele are torpid places in his mind, there is son1ething hard and sterile in his poetry, want of grace and variety~ want of due catholicity and cosmopolitan scope: he had conformities to English politics and traditions; he had egotistic puerilities in the choice and treatment of his subjects; but let us say of him that, alone in his time, he treated the human mind well, and with an absolute trust. His adherence to his poetic creed rested on real inspirations. The Ode on Immortality is the high-\vater mark which the intellect has reached in this age. New means were employed, and n.ew realms added to the empire of the muse, by his courage.

CHAPTER XVIII RESULT

is the best of actual nations. It is no ideal framework, it is an old pile built in different ages, with repairs, additions and makeshifts; but you see the poor best you have got. London is the epitome of our times, and the Rome of to-day. Broarlfronted, broad-bottomed Teutons, they stand in solid phalanx foursquare to the points of compass; they constitute the modern world, they have earned their vantage ground and held it through ages of adverse possession. They are well marked and differing irom other leading races. England is tender-hearted. Ron1e was not. England is not so public in its bias; private life is its place of honor. Truth in private life, untruth in public, marks these home-loving men. Their political conduct is not decided by general views, but by internal intrigues and personal and family interest. They cannot readily see beyond England. The history of Rome and Greece, when written by their scholars, degen. . erates into English party pamphlets. They cannot see beyond England, nor in England can they transcend the interests of the governing classes. "English principles" mean a primary regard to the interests of property. England, Scotland and Ireland combine to check the colonies. England and Scotland combine to check Irish manufactures and trade. England rallies

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at home to check Scotland. In England, the strong classes check the weaker . In the home population of near thirty millions, there are but one million voters. The Church punishes dissent, pun", ishes education. Down to a late day, marriages performed by dissenters were illegal. A bitter class-legislation gives power to those who are rich enough to buy a law. The game-laws are a proverb of oppression. Pauperism incrusts and clogs the state, and in hard times becomes hideous.. In bad seasons, the porridge was diluted. Multitudes lived miserably by shell-fish and sea-ware. In cities, the children are trained to beg, until they shall be olu enough to rob. Men and women were convicted of poisoning scores of children for burial-fees. In Irish districts, men deteriorated in size and shape, the nose sunk, the gums were exposed, with diminished brain and brutal form. During the Australian emigration, multitudes were rejected by the com·· missioners as being too emaciated for useful colonists. During the Russian war, few of those that offered as recruits were found up to the medical standard, though it had been reduced. The foreign policy of England, though ambitious and lavish of money, has not often been generous or just. It has a principal regard to the interest of trade, checked however by the aristocratic bias of the ambassador, "vhich usually puts him in sympathy with the continental Courts. It sanctioned the partitioIJ of Poland, it betrayed Genoa, Sicily, Parma, Greece, Turkey, Rome and Hungary. Some public regards they have. They have abolished slavery in the West Indies and put an end to human sacrifices in the East. At home they have a certain statute hospitality. England keeps open doors, as a trading country must, to all nations. It is one of their fixed ideas, and wrathfully supported by their iaws in unbroken sequence for a thousand years. In Magna Charta it was ordained that all "merchants shall have safe and secure conduct to go out and come into England, and to stay there, and to pass as well by land as by water, to buy and sell by the ancient allowed customs, without any evil toll, except in time of war, or when they shall be of any nation at war with us." It is a statute and obliged hospitality and peremptorily

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maintained. But this shop-rule bad one magnificent effect. It extends its cold unalterable courtesy to political exiles of every opinion, and is a fact which might give additional light to that portion of the planet seen from the farthest star. But this perfunctory hospitality puts no sweetness into their unaccommo.. dating manners, no check on that puissant nationality which makes their existence incompatible with all that is not English. What we must say about a nation is a superficial dealing with symptoms. We cannot go deep enough into the biography of the spirit who never throws himself entire into one hero, but delegates his energy in parts or spasms to vicious and defec:tive individuals. But the wealth of the source is seen in the plenitude of English nature . What variety of power and talent; what fa.,. cilityand plenteousness of knighthood, lordship, ladyship, royalty, loyalty; what a proud chivalry is indicated in "Collins's Peerage," through eight hundred years! What dignity resting on what reality and stoutness I What courage in war, what sinew in labor, what cunning workmen, what inventors and engineers, what seamen and pilots, what clerks and scholars! No one man and no few men can represent them. It is a people i)f myriad personalities. Their many-headedness is owing to the advantageous position of the middle class, who are always the source of letters and science. Hence the vast plenty of their resthetic production. As they are many-headed, so they are many-nationed: their colonization annexes archipelagoes and continents, and their speech seems destined to be the universal language of men. I have noted the reserve of power in the Eng.. lish temperament. In the island, they never let out all the length of all the reins, there is no Berserker rage, no abandon.. ment or ecstasy of will or intellect, like that of the Arabs in ~;he time of Mahomet, or like that which intoxicated France in 1789- But who would see the uncoiling of that tremendous spring, the explosion of their well-husbanded forces, must follow the swarms which pouring now for two hundred years from the British islands, have sailed and rode and traded and planted through all climates, mainly following the belt of empire, the temperate zones, carrying the Saxon seed, with its instinct for

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liberty and law, for arts and for thought-acquiring under some skies a more electric energy than the native air allows-to the conquest of the globe. Their colonial policy, obeying the neces .. sities of a vast empire, has become liberal. Canada and Australia have been contented with substantial independence. They are expiating the wrongs of India by benefits; first, in works for the irrigation of the peninsula, and roads, and telegraphs; and sec.. ondly, in the instruction of the people, to qualify them for self.. government, when the British power shall be finally called home. Their mind is in a state of arrested development-a divine cripple like Vulcan; a blind savant like Huber and Sanderson. They do not occupy themselves on matters of general and lasting import, but on a corporeal civilization, on goods that perish in the using. But they read with good intent, and what they learn they il1carnate. The English mind turns every abstraction it can reeeive into a portable utensil, or a working institution. Such is their tenacity and such their practical turn, that they hold all they gain. Hence we say that only the English race can be trusted with freedom-freedom which is double-edged and dangerous to any but the wise and robust. The English desig .. nate the kingdoms emulous of free institutions, as the sentimental nations. Their culture is not an outside varnish, but is thorough and secular in families and the race. They are oppressive with their temperament, and all the more that they are refined. I have sometimes seen them walk with my countrymen when I was forced to allow them every advantage, and their companions seemed bags of bones. There is cramp limitation in their habit of thought, sleepy routine, and a tortoise's instinct to hold hard to the ground with his claws, lest he should be thrown on his back. There is a drag of inertia which resists reform in every shape-law-reform, army-reform, extension of suffrage, Jewish franchise, Catholic emancipation-the abolition of slavery, of impressment, penal code and entails. They praise this drag, under the formula that it is the excellence of the British constitution that no law can anticipate the public opinion. These poor tortoises must hold

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hard, for they feel no wings sprouting at their shoulders. Yet somewhat divine warms at their heart and waits a happier hour. It hides in their sturdy will. "Will," said the old philosophy, "is the measure of power/' and personality ~:; LilE: token of this race. Quid vult valde vult. What they do t!iey do with a will. You cannot account for their success by their Christianity, com.. merce, charter, common law, Parliament, or letters, but by the I contumacious sharp-tongued energy of English naturel, with a poise impossible to disturb, which makes all these its instruments. They are slow and reticent, and are like a dull good horse which lets every nag pass him, but with whip and spur will run down every racer in the field. They are right in their feeling, though wrong in their speculation. The feudal system survives in the steep inequality of property and privilege, in the limited franchise, in the social barriers which confine patronage and promotion to a caste, and still more in the submissive ideas pervading these people. The fagging of the schools is repeated in the social classes. An Englishman shows no mercy to those below him in the social scale, as he looks for none from those above him; any forbearance from his superiors surprises him, and they suffer in his good opinion. But the feudal system can be seen with less pain on large historical grounds. It was pleaded in mitigation of the rotten borough, that it worked well, that substantial justice was done. Fox, Burke, Pitt, Erskine, Wilberforce, Sheridan, Romilly, or whatever national man, were by this means sent to Parliament, when their return by large constituencies would have been doubtful. So now we say that the right measures of England are the men it bred; that it has yielded more able men in five hundred years than any other nation; and, though we must not play Providence and balance the chances of producing ten great men against the comfort of ten thousand mean men, yet retrospectively, we may ( strike the balance and prefer one Alfred, one Shakspeare, one J\.iilton, one Sidney, one Raleigh, one Wellington, to a million foolish democrats. The American system is more, democratic, more humane; :ret the American people do not yield better or more able men,

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or nlore inventions or books or benefits than the English. Con· gress is not wiser or better than Parliament. France has abot ished its suffocating old regi11te, but is not recently nlarked b}" any more wisdom or virtue. The power of performance has not been exceeded-the cre~ ation of value. The English have given importance to individuals, a principal enel and fruit of every society. Every man is allowed and encouraged to be what he is, and is guarded in the indulgence of his whim. "l\iagna Charta," said Rushworth, "is such a fellow that he will have no sovereign." By this general activity and by this sacredness of individuals, they have in seven hundred years evolved the principles of freedom. It is the land of patriots: martyrs, sages and bards, and if the ocean out of which it emerged should wash it away, it will be remembered as an island famouS" for immortal laws, for the announcements of original right which' make the stone tables of liberty.

CHAPTER XIX SPEECH AT l\{ANCHESTER

A

days after my arrival at l\fanchester, in Novembet, I847, the Manchester Athenreum gave its annual Banquet in the Free-Trade Hall. vVith other guests, I was invited to be present and to address the cOlnpany. In looking over recently a newspaper-report of my remarks, I incline to reprint it, as fitly expressing the feeling with which I entered England, and which agrees well enough with the more deliberate results of better acquaintance recorded in the foregoing pages. Sir Archibald Alison, the historian, presided, and opened the meeting with a speech. He was followed by Mr. Cobden, Lord Brackley and others, among ,vhom was ~lr. Cruikshank, one of the contributors to Punch. l\ir. Dickens's letter of apology for his:; absence was read. l\1r. Jerrold, who had been announced.. did not appear. On being introduced to the Dleeting I saidMr. Chairman and Gentlemen: It is pleasant to TIle to Meet this great and brilliant company, and doubly pleasant to see the FEW

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faces of so many distinguished persons on this platform. But I have known all these persons already. When I was at home, they were as near to me as they are to you. The arguments of the League and its leader are known to all the iriends of free trade. The gayeties and genius, the political, the social, the flarietal wit of Punch go duly every fortnight to every boy and girl in Boston and New York. Sir, when I came to sea, I found the History of Europe, by Sir A. Alison, on the ship's cabin table, the property of the captain-a sort of programme or play-bill to tell the seafaring New Englander what he shall find on his landing here. And as for Dombey, sir, there is no land where paper exists to print on, where it is not found; no man who can read, that does not read it, and, if he cannot, he finds some charitable pair of eyes that can, and hears it . But these things are not for me to say; these compliments, though true, would better come from one who felt and understood these merits more . I am not here to exchange civilities with you, but rather to speak of that which I am sure interests these gentlemen more than their ovvn praises; of that which is good in holidays and '''lorking-days, the same in one century and in another century. That vvhich lures a solitary American in the woods with the wish to see England, is the moral peculiarity of the Saxon race-its commanding sense of right and wrong, the love and devotion to that-ihis is the imperial trait, which arms them with the sceptre of the globe. It is this ,vhich lies at the foundation of that aristocratic character, which certainly wanders into strange vagaries, so that its origin is often lost sight of, but which, if it should lose this, would find itself para... lyzed; and in trade and in the mechanic's shop, gives that honesty in performance, that thoroughness and solidity of work which is a national characteristic. This conscience is one element, and the other is that loyal adhesion, that habit of friendship, that homage of man to man, running through all classes-the electing of worthy persons to a certain fra terni ty, to acts of kindness and warm and stanch support, from year to year, from youth to age-which is alike lovely and honorable to those who render and those who receive it; which stands in strong contrast with .#

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the superficial attachments of other races, their excessive courtesy and short-lived connection. You will think me very pedantic, gentlemen, but holiday though it be, I haVe not the smallest interest in any holiday' e."{cept as it celebrates real and not pretended joys; and I think it just, in this time of gloom and commercial disaster, of afflic. . tion and beggary in these districts, that, on these very accounts I speak of, you should !lot fail to keep your literary anniversary. I seem to hear you say, that for all that is come and gone yet, we will not reduce by one chapl~t or one oak-leaf the braverie~ of our annual feast. For I must tell you, I was given to understand in my childhood that the British island from which my forefathers came was no lotus-garden, no paradise of serene sky and roses and music and merriment all the year round, no, but a cold, foggy, mournful country, where nothing grew well in the open air but robust men and virtuous women, and these of a wonderful fibre and endurance; that their best parts were slowly' revealed; their virtues did not come out until they quarrelled; they did not strike twelve the first time; good lovers,., good haters, and you could know little about them till you had seen them long, and little good of them till you had seen them in action; that in prosperity they were moody and dumpish, but in adversity they were grand. Is it not true, sir, that the wise an.. cients did not praise the ship parting with flying colors from the port, but only that brave sailor which came back with torn sheets and battered sides, stript of her banners, but having rid .. den out the storm? And so, gentlemen, I feel in regard to this aged England, with the possessions, honors and trophies, and also with the infirmities of a thousand years gathering around her, irretrievably committed as she now is to ll1any old customs which cannot be suddenly changed; pressed upon by the transitions of trade and new and all incalculable modes, fabrics, arts, machines and cOlnpeting populations. I see her not dispirited, not weak, but well remembering that she has seen dark days before-indeed with a kind of instinct that she sees a little better in a cloudy day, and that in storm of battle and calamity she has a secret vigor and a pulse like a cannon. I see her in

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her old age, not necrepit, but young and still daring to believe in her power of endurance and expansion. Seeing this, I say, All hail! mother of nations, mother of heroes, with strength still equal to the time; still wise to entertain and swift to execute . the policy which mind and heart of mankind requires in the present hour, and thus only hospitable to the foreigner and truly a borne to the thoughtful and generous who are born in the soil. So be it! so let it be! If it be not so, if the courage of England goes with the chances of a commercial crisis, I will go back to the capes of Massachusetts and my own Indian stream, and say to my countrymen, the old race are all gone, and the elasticity and hope of mankind must henceforth remain on the Alleghany ranges, or nowhere .

CONDUCT OF LIFE [Conduct of Life was published in 1860. Most of the

material in this book had served as a course oj lectures, fi1~st in Pittsburgh in 1851, later in Boston and then at various places throughout the country. By this time Emerson was well known everywhere in America and was in constant demand. He was traveling extensively in the East and in the Middle West, which was then a raw and growing part of the country. The period between his return from England in 1848 and the publication oj this book in 1860 was full of great political unrest and Emerson was un· willingly drawn into it. Conduct of Life was well re ceived and sold rapidly. Selected for this volume are the essays "Wealth" and "Culture."]

V\TEALTH Who shall tell what did befall, Far away in time, when once, Over the lifeless ball, Hung idle stars and suns? What god the element obeyed? Wings of what wind the lichen bore, Wafting the puny seeds of power, Which, lodged in rock, the rock abrade? And well the primal pioneer Knew the strong task to it assigned, Patient through Heaven's enormous year To build in matter home for mind. From air the creeping centuries drew The matted thicket low and wide, This must the leaves of ages strew The granite slab to clothe and hide, Ere wheat can wave its golden pride. What smiths, and in what furnac~, rolled (In dizzy reaDS dim and mute The reeling brain can ill compute) Copper and iron, lead, and gold? What oldest star the fame can save Of races perishing to pave The planet with a floor of lime? Dust is their pyramid and mole: Who saw what ferns and palms were pressed Under the tumbling mountain's breast,

In the safe herbal of the coal? But when the quarried means were piled, All is waste and worthless, till Arrives the wise selecting will, And, out of slime and chaos, Wit Draws the threads of fair and fit. Then temples rose, and towns, and marts, The shop of toil, the hall of arts; Then flew the sail across the seas To feed the North from tropic trees j The storm-wind wove, the torrene span, Where they were bid the rivers ran; New slaves fulfilled the poet's

dream, Calvanic wire,

strong-shouldere~

steam. Then docks were built, and were stored,

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And ingots added to the hoard. But, though light-headed man for~ get, Remembering Matter pays het debt: Still, through her motes and masseSr draw Electric thrills and ties of Law, Which bind the strengths of Nature wild To the conscience of a child.

As SOON as a stranger is introduced into any company, one of the first questions which all wish to have answered, is, How does that man get his living? And with reason. He is no whole 693

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man until he knows how to carn a blameless livelihood. Society is barbarous until every industrious man can get his living with.. out dishonest customs. Every man is a consumer, and ought to be a producer. He fails to make his place good in the world unless he not only pays his debt but also adds something to the common wealth. Nor can he do justice to his genius without making some larger demand on the world than a bare subsistence. He is by constitution expen.. sive, and needs to be rich. Wealth has its source in applications of the mind to nature, from the rudest strokes of spade and axe up to the last secrets )f art. Intimate ties subsist between thought and all production; because a better order is equivalent to vast amounts of brute labor. rr:he forces and the resistances are nature's, but the mind acts in bringing things from where they abound to where they are wanted; in wise combining; in directing the practice of the useful arts, and in the creation of finer values by fine art, by eloquence, by song, or the reproductions of memory. Wealth is in applications of mind to nature; and the art of getting rich consists not in industry, much less in saving, but in a better order, in timeliness, in being at the right spot. One man has stronger arms or longer legs; another sees by the course of streams and growth of markets where land will be wanted, makes a clearing to the river, goes to sleep and wakes up rich. Steam is no stronger now than it was a hundred years ago; but is put to better use. A clever fellow was acquainted with the expansive force of steanl; he also saw the wealth of wheat and grass rotting in Michigan. Then he cunningly screws on the steam-pipe to the wheat-crop. Puff now, 0 Steam! The steam puffs and expands as before, but this time it is rlragging all ~1ichigan at its back to hungry New York and hungry England. Coal lay in ledges under the ground since the Flood, until a laborer with pick and windlass brings it to the surface. We may well call it black diamonds. Every basket is power and civilization. For coal is a portable climate. It carries the heat of the tropics to Labrador and the polar circle; and it is the means of transporting itself whithersoever it is wantedg

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Watt and Stephenson whispered in the ear of mankind their secret, that a halj . . ounce of coal will draw two tons a mile, and coal carries coal, by rail and by boat, to make Canada a~ warnl as Calcutta; and with its comfort brings its industrial power . When the farn1er's peaches are taken from under the tree and carried into town, they have a new look and a hundredfold value over the fruit which grew on the saIne bough and lies fulsomely on the ground. The craft of the n1erchant is this bringing a thing from where it abounds to where it is costly. Wealth begins in a tight roof that keeps the rain and wind out; in a good pump that yields you plenty of sweet water; in two suits of clothes, so to change your dress when you are wet; in dry sticks to burn, in a good double-wick lamp, and three meals; in a horse or a locomotive to cross the land, in a boat to cross the sea; in tools to work with, in books to read; and so in giving on all sides by tools and auxiliaries the greatest possible exten . . sion to our powers; as if it added feet and hands and eyes and blood, length to the day, and knowledge and good will. Wealth begins with these articles of necessity. And here We must recite the iron la,v which nature thunders in these northern climates. First she requires that each man should feed himsel[ If happily his fathers have left him no inheritance, he must go to work, and by making his wants less or his gains more, he must draw hitnself out of that state of pain and insult in which she forces the beggar to lie. She gives him no rest until this is done; she starves, taunts and torments him, takes away warmth, laughter, sleep, friends and daylight, until he has fought his way to his own loaf. Then, less peremptorily but still with sting enough, she urges him to the acquisition of such things as belong to him. Every warehouse and shop-window, every fruit-tree, every thought of every hour opens a new want to him which it concerns his power and dignity to gratify. It is of no use to argue the wants down: the philosophers have laid the greatness of man in n1aking his wants few, but \f\,-ill a man content himself with a hut and a handful of dried pease? He is born to be rlch4 He is thoroughly related; and is tempted out by his appetites and fancies to the conquest of this and that piece of natllre~

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until he finds his well-being in the use of his planet, and of more planets than his own. Wealth requires, besides the crust of bread and the roof-the freedom of the city, the freedom of the earth, travelling, machinery, the benefits of science, music and fine arts, the best culture and the best company. He is the rich man who can avail himself of all men's faculties. He is the richest fi'lan who knows how to draw a benefit from the labors of the greatest number of men, of men in distant countries and in past times. The same correspondence that is between thirst in the stomach and water in the spring, exists between the whole of man and the whole of nature. The elements offer their service to him. The sea, washing the equator and the poles, offers its perilous aid and the power and empire that follow it-day by day to his craft and audacity. "Beware of me," it says, "but if you can hold me, I am the key to all the lands." Fire offers, on its side, an equal power. Fire, steam, lightning, gravity, ledges of rock, mines of iron, lead, quicksilver, tin and gold; forests of all woods; fruits 01 all climates; animals of all habits; the powers of tillage; the fa~rics of his chemic laboratory; the webs of his loom; the mascu~ine draught of his locomotive; the talismans of the machine-shop; all grand and subtile 'things, minerals, gases, ethers, passions, war, trade, government-are his natural playmates, and according to the excellence of the machinery in each human being is his attraction for the instruments he is to employ. The world is his tool-chest, and he is successful, or his education is carried on just so far, as is the marriage of his faculties with nature, or the degree in which he takes up things into himself. The strong race is strong on these terms. The Saxons are the ~erchants of the world; now, for a thousand years, the leading race, and by nothing more than their quality of personal independence, and in its special modification, pecuniary independence. No reliance for bread and games on the government; no cianship, no patriarchal style of living by the revenues of a -:hief, no marrying-on, no system of clientship suits them; but ~very man must pay his scot. The English are prosperous and peaceable, with their habit of considering that every man must

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take care of himself and has himself to thank if he do not maintain and improve his position in society. The subject of economy mixes itself with morals, inasmuch as it is a peremptory point of virtue that a mall's independence be secured. Poverty demoralizes. A man in debt is so far a slave, and Wall Street tllinks it easy for a millionaire to be a man of his word, a man of honor, but that in failing circumstances no man can be relied on to keep his integrity. And when one ob . serves in the hotels and palaces of our Atlantic capitals the habit of expense, the riot of the senses, the absence of bonds, clanship, fellow-feeling of any kind-he feels that when a man or a woman is driven to the wall, the chances of integrity are frightfuIJy diminished; as if virtue were coming to be a luxury which few' could afford, or, as Burke said, "at a market almost too high for humanity." I-Ie may fix his inventory of necessities and of enjoyments on what scale he pleases, but if he wishes the power and privilege of thought, the chalking out his own career and having society on his own terms, he must bring his wants within his proper power to satisfy. The manly part is to do with might and main what you can do. The world is full of fops who never did anything and who had persuaded beauties and men of genius to wear their fop livery; and these will deliver the fop opinion, that it is nnt respectable to be seen earning a living; that it is much more respectable to spend without earning; and this doctrine of tht: snake will come also from the elect sons of light; for wise men are not wise at all hours, and will speak five times from their taste or their humor, to once from their reason. The brave workman, who might betray his feeling of it in his manners, if he do not succumb in his practice, n1ust replace the grace or elegance forfeited, by the merit of the work done. No matter whether he makes shoes, or statues, or laws. It is the privilege of any human work which is well done to invest the doer with a certain haughti. ness. He can well afford not to conciliate, whose faithful wor1, will ans~er for him. The mechanic at his bench carries a quiet heart and assured manners, and deals on even terms with men of any copdition. The artist has made his picture so true that ;t

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disconcerts criticism. The statue is so beautiful that it contracts no stain from the market, but makes the market a silent gallery for itself. The case of the young lawyer was pitiful to disgusta paltry matter of buttons or tweezer-cases; but the determined youth saw in it an aperture to insert his dangerous wedges, made the insignificance of the thing forgotten, and gave fame by his sense and energy to the name and affairs of the Tittleton snuff.. box factory. Society in large towns is babyish, and wealth is made a toy. The life of pleasure is so ostentatious that a shallow observer must believe that this is the agreed bes~ use of wealth, and, what. . ever is pretended, it ends in cosseting. But if this were the main use of surplus capital, it would bring us to barricades, burned towns and tomahawks, presently. Men of sense esteem wealth to be the assimilation of nature to themselves, the converting of the sap and juices of the planet to the incarnation and nutriment of their design. Power is what they want, not candy-power to execute their design, power to give legs and feet, form and actuality to their thought; which, to a clear-sighted man, appears the end for which the universe exists, and all its resources might be w-ell applied. Columbus thinks that the sphere is a problem for practical navigation as well as for closet geometry, and looks on all kings and peoples as cowardly landsmen until they dare fit ~im out. Few men on the planet have more truly belonged to it. But he was forced to leave much of his map blank. His successors lnherited his map, and inherited his fury to complete it. So the men of the mine, telegraph, mill, map and survey-the monomaniacs who talk up their project in marts and offices and entreat men to subscribe-how did our factories get built? how did North America get netted with iron rails, except by the importunity of these orators who dragged all the prudent men in? Is party the madness of many for the gain of a few? This speculative genius is the madness of a few for the gain of the world. The projectors are sacrificed, but the public is the gainer. Each of these idealists, working after his thought, would make it tyrannical, if he could. He is met and antagonized by other 3peculators as hot as he. The equilibrium is preserve~ by these

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counteractions, as one tree keeps down another in the forest, that it may not absorb all the sap in the ground. And the supply in nature of railroad-presidents, copper-nliners, gra.nd-junctioners, smoke-burners, fire-annihilators, etc., is limited by the samr. law which keeps the proportion in the supply of carbon, of aluln, and of hydrogen. To be rich is to have a ticket of adnlission to the master-works and chief men of each race. It is to have the sea, by voyaging; to visit the mountains, Niagara, the Nile, the desert, Rome, Paris, Constantinople; to see galleries, libraries, arsenals, manufactories. The reader of Hurnboldt's Cosmos foHows the marches of a man whose eyes, ears and mind are armed by all the science, arts and implements which mankind have anywhere accumu .. lated, and who is using these to add to the stock. So it is with Denon, Beckford, Belzoni, Wilkinson, Layard, Kane, Lepsius and Livingstone. "The rich man," says Saadi, "is everywhere expected and at home." The rich take up something more of the world into man's life. They include the country as well as the town, the ocean-side, the White Hills, the Far West and the old European homesteads of man, in their notion of available material. The w()rld is his who has money to go' over it. Hf. arrives at th~ seashore and a sumptuous ship has floored and carpeted for him the stormy Atlantic, and made it a luxurious hotel, amid the horrors of tempests. The Persians say, " 'T is the same to him who wears a shoe, as if the whole earth wert' covered with leather." Kings are said to have long arms, but every man should have long arms, and should pluck his living, his instruments, his power. and his knowing, from the sun, moon and stars. Is not then the demand to be rich legitimate? Yet I have never seen a rich man. I have never seen a man as rich as all men ought to be, or with an adequate command of nature. The pulpit and the press havf, many commonplaces denouncing the thirst for wealth; but if men should take these moralists at their word and leave oft aiming to be rich, the moralists would rush to rekindle at aU hazards this love of power in the people, lest civilization shoulci be undone. Men are urged by their ideas to acquire the com. .

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mand over nature. Ages derive a culture from the wealth of Roman Cresars, Leo Tenths, magnificent Kings of France, Grand Dukes of Tuscany, Dukes of Devonshire, Townleys, Vernons and Peels, in England; or whatever great proprietors. It is the interest of all men that there should be Vaticans and Louvres full of noble works of art; British Museums, and French Gardens of Plants, Philadelphia Academies of Natural History, Bodleian, Ambrosian, Royal, Congressional Libraries. It is the interest of all that there should be Exploring Expeditions; Captain Cooks to voyage round the world, Rosses, Franklins, Ricbardsons and Kanes, to find the magnetic and the geographic poles. We are all richer for the measurement of a degree of latitude on the earth's surface. Our navigation is safer for the chart. flow intimately our knowledge of the system of the Universe rests on that!-and a true economy in a state or an individual will forget its frugality in behalf of claims like these. Whilst it is each man's interest that not only ease and convenience of living, but also wealth or surplus product should exist somewhere, it need not be in his hands. Often it is very undesirable to him. Goethe said well, "Nobody should be rich but those who understand it." Some men are born to own, and can animate all their possessions. Others cannot: their owning is not graceful; seems to be a compromise of their character; they seem to steal their own dividends. They should own who can administer, not they who hoard and conceal; not they who, the greater proprietors they are, are only the greater beggars, but they whose work carves out work for more, opens a path for all.. For he is the rich man in whom the people al'e rich, and he is the poor man in whom the people are poor; and how to give all access to the masterpieces of art and nature, is the problem of civilization. The socialism of our day has done good service in setting men on thinking how certain civilizing benefits, now only enjoyed by the opulent, can be enjoyed by all. For example, the providing to each man the means and apparatus of science and of the arts. There are many articles good for occasional use, which fevi men are able to own. Every man wishes to see the ring of SatuI\J, the satellites and belts of Jupiter and

701 Mars, the mountains and craters in the moon; yet how few can buy a telescope! and of those, scarcely one would like the trouble of keeping it in order and exhibiting it. So of electrical and chemical apparatus, and many the like things. Every man may have occasion to consult books which he does not care to possess, such as cyclopedias, dictionaries, tables, charts, maps and other public documents; pictures also of birds, beasts, fishes, spells, trees, flowers, whose f:lames he desires to know. There is a refining influence from the arts of Design on a prepared mind which is as positive as that of music, and nf>t to be c;upplied from any other source. But pictures, engravings, statues and casts, beside their first cost, entail expenses, as of galleries and keepers for the exhibition; and the use which any man can make of them is rare, and their value too is much en.. hanced by the numbers of men who can share their enjoyment. In the Greek. cities it was reckoned profane that any person should pretend a property in a work of art, which belonged to all who could behold it. I think sometimes, could I only have music on my own terms; could I live in a great city and know where I could go whenever I wished the ablution and inundation of musical waves-that were a bath and a medicine. If properties of this kind were owned by states, towns and lyceums, they would draw the bonds of neighborhood closer. A town would exist to an intellectual purpose. In Europe, where the feudal form~ secure the permanence of wealth in certain families, those families buy and preserve these things and lay them open to the public. But in America, where democratic institutions divide every estate into small portions after a few years, the public should step into the place of these proprietors, and pro.. vide this culture and inspiration for the citizens. Man was born to be rich, or inevitably grows rich by the use of his faculties; by the union of thought with nature. Property is an intellectual production. The game requires coolness, right reasoning, promptness and patience in the players. Cultivated iabor drives out brute labor. An infinite number of shrewd men, in infinite years, have arrived at certain best and shortest ways of doing, and this accumulated skill in. arts, CUltures, harvestings,

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curings, manufactures, navigations, exchanges, constitutes the worth of our world to-day. Commerce is a game of skill, which every man cannot play, which few men can play well. The right merchant is one who has the just average of faculties we call common-sense,. a man of a strong affinity for facts, who makes up his decision on what he has seen. He is thoroughly persuaded of the truths of arithmetic. There is always a reason, in the man, for his good or bad fortune, and so in making money. Men talk as if there were some magic about this, and believe in magic, in all parts of life. He knows that all goes on the old road, pound for pound, cent for cent-for every effect a perfect cause-and that good luck is another name for tenacity of purpose. He insures himself in every transaction, and likes small and sure gains. Probity and closeness to the facts are the. basis, but the masters of the art add a certain' long arithmetic. The problem is to combine many and remote operations with the accuracy and adherence to the facts which is easy in near and small transactions; so to arrive at gigantic results, without any compromise of safety. Napoleon was fond of telling the story of the Marseilles banker who said ta his visitor, surprised at the contrast between the splendor of the banker's chateau and hospitality and the meanness of the counting-room in which he had seen him-"Young man, you are too young to understand how masses are formed; the true and only power, whether composed of money, water or men; it is all alike; a mass is an immense centre of motion, but it must be begun, it must be kept up"-and he might have added that the way in which it must be begun and kept up is by obedience to the law of particles. Success consists in close appliance to the laws of the world, and since those laws are intellectual and moral, an intellectual and moral obedience. Political Economy is as good a book wherein to read the life of man and the ascendancy of laws over all private and hostile influences, as any Bible which has come down to us. Money is representative, and follows the nature and fortunes of the owner. The coin is a delicate meter of civil , social and

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moral changes. The farmer is covetous of his dollar, and with reason. It is no waif to him. He knows how many strokes of labor it represents. His bones ache with the days' work that earned it. He knovvs how much land it represents-how much rain, frost and sunshine. He knows that, in the dollar, he gives you so much discretion and patience, so much hoeing and threshing. Try to lift his dollar; you must lift all that weight. In the city, where money follows the skit of a pen or a lucky rise in ~xchange, it comes to be looked on as light. I wish the farnler held it dearer 1 and would spend it only for real bread; force for force. The farmer's dollar is heavy and the clerk's is light and nimble; leaps out of his pocket; jumps on to card and faro-tables: but still more curious is its susceptibility to Inetaphysical changes. It is the finest barometer of social storms, and announces revolutions. Every step of civil advancement makes every man's dallal' worth more. In California, the country where it grew-what would it buy? A few years since, it would buy a shanty, dysentery, hunger, bad company and crime. There are wide countries. like Siberia, where it would buy little else to-day than some petty mitigation of suffering. In Rome it will buy beauty and magnificence. Forty years ago, a dollar would not buy much in Boston . N ow it will buy a great deal more in our old towns, thanks to railroads, telegraphs, steamers, and the contemporaneous growth of New York and the whole country_ Yet there are many goods appertaining to a capital city which are not yet purchasable here, no, not with a mountain of dollars. A dollar in Florida is not worth a dollar in Massachusetts. A dollar is not value, but representative of value, and, at last, of nloral values. A dollar is rated for the corn it will buy, or to speak strictly, not for the corn or house-room} but for '!\thenian corn, and Roman house-roam-for the wit, probity and power which we eat bread and dwell in houses to share and exert. Wealth is mental; wealth is morat The value of a dollar is, to buy just things; a dollar goes on increasing in value with all the genius and all the virtue of the world. A dollar in a university is worth more than a dollar in a jail; in a telnperate, schooled, law..abiding community than in

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some sink of crime, where dice, knives and arsenic are in constant play. The Bank-Note Detector is a useful publication. But the current dollar, silver or paper, is itself the detector of the right and 'wrong where it circulates. Is it not instantly enhanced by the increase of equity? If a trader refuses to sell his vote, or adheres to some odious right, he makes so much more equity in Massa~husetts; and every acre in the state is more worth, in the hour ~f his action. If you take out of State Street the ten honestest merchants and put in ten roguish persons controlling the same amount of capital, the rates of insurance will indicate it; the soundness of banks will show it; the highways will be less secure; the schools will feel it, the children will bring home their little dose of the poison; the judge will sit less firmly on the bench, and his decisions be less upright; he has lost so much support and constraint, which all need; and the pUlpit will betray it, in a laxer rule of life. An apple-tree, if you take out every day for a number of days a load of loam and put in a load of sand about its roots, will find it out. An apple-tree is a stupid kind of crea.. ture, but if this treatment be pursued for a short tirr'e I think it would begin to lnistrust something. And if you should take out of the powerful class engaged in trade a hundred good men and put in a hundred bad, or, what is just the same thing, introduce a demoralizing institution, would not the dollar, which is not much stupider than an apple-tree, presently find it out? The value of a dollar is social, as it is created by society. Every man \\o"ho removes into this city with any purchasable talent or skill in him, gives to etrery man's labor in the city a new worth. If 2 talent is anywher(~ born into the world, the community of nation-, is enriched; and much more with a new degree of probity. The expense of crime, one of the principal charges of every nation, is so far stopped. In Europe, crime is observed to increase or abate with the price of bread. If the Rothschilds at Paris do not accept bills, the people at Manchester, at Paisley, at Birmingham are forced into the highway, and landlords are shot down in Ireland. The police-records attest it. The vibrations are presentlv felt m New York, New Orleans and Chicago. Not much

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~

otherwise the economical power touches the masses thr ,.. political lords. Rothschild refuses the Russian loan, and th·--er-e-l""':;" peace and the harvests are saved. He takes it, and there is wal; and an agitation through a large portion of mankind, with every hideous result, ending in revolution and a new order. Wealth brings with it its own checks and balances. The basi:; of political economy is non-interference. The only safe rule il~ found in the self-adjusting meter of demand and supply . Do no~ legislate. Meddle, and you snap the sinews with your sumptuary laws. Give no bounties, make equal laws, secure life and prop erty, and you need not give alms. Open the doors of opportunit)' to talent and virtue and they will do themselves justic.e, an(i property will not be in bad hands. In a free and just common wealth, property rushes from the idle and in1becile to the indus trious, brave and persevering. The laws of nature play through trade, as a toy-battery ex.. hibits the effects of electricity. The level of the sea is not marc surely kept than is the equilibrium of value in society by the denland and supply; and artifice or legislation punishes itself bj reactions, gluts and bankruptcies. The sublime laws play indifferently through atoms and galaxies. Whoever knows what hap . . pens in the getting and spending of a loaf of bread and a pint of beer, that no wishing will change the rigorous limits of pints and penny loaves; that for all that. is consumed so much less remains in the basket and pot, but what is gone out of these is not wasted, but well spent, if it nourish his body and enable him to finish his task-knows all of political economy that the budgets of em... pires can teach him. The interest of petty economy is this sym.. bolization of the great economy; the way in which a house and a private man's methods tally with the solar system and the laws of give and take, throughout nature; and however wary we are of the falsehoods and petty tricks which we suicidally playoff on each other, every man has a certain satisfaction whenever his dealing touches on the inevitable facts; when he sees that things themselves dictate the price, as they always tend to do, and, in large manufactures, are seen to do. Your paper is not fine or coarse enough-is too heavy, or too thin. The manufacturer says I

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he will furnish you with just that thickness or thinness you want; the pattern is quite indifferent to him; here is his schedule-any variety of paper, as cheaper or dearer, with the prices annexed. A pound of paper costs so much, and you may have it made up in any pattern you fancy. There is in all our dealings a self-regulation that supersedes chaffering. You will rent a house, but must have it cheap. The owner can reduce the rent, but so he incapacitates himself from making proper repairs, and the tenant gets not the house he would have, but a worse one; besides that, a relation a little injurious is established between landlord and tenant. You dismiss your laborer, saying, "Patrick, I shall send for you as soon as I cannot do without you." Patrick goes off contented, for he knows that the weeds will grow with the potatoes, the vines must be planted, next week, and however unwilling you may be, the cantaloupes, crook-necks and cucumbers will send for him. Who but must wish that all labor and value should stand on the sanle simple and surly market? If it is the best of its kind, it will. We must have joiner, locksmith, planter, priest, poet, doctor, cook, weaver, ostler; each in turn, through the year. If a St. Michael's pear sells for a shilling, it costs a shilling to raise it. If, in Boston, the best securities offer twelve per cent. for money, they have just six per cent. of insecurity. You may not see that the fine pear costs you a shilling, but it costs the community so much. The shilling represents the number of enemies the pear has, and the amount of risk in ripenjng it. The price of coal shows the narrowness of the coal-field, and a compulsory confinement of the miners to a certain district. All salaries are ~eck.oned on contingent as well as on actual services. "If the wind were always southwest by west," said the skipper, "women might take ships to sea." One might say that all things are of one price; that nothing is cheap or dear, and that the apparent disparities that strike us are only a shopman's trick of concealing the damage in your bargain. A youth coming into the city from his native New Hampshire farm, with its hard fare still fresh in his remembrance, boards at a first-class hotel, and believes he must somehow have outwitted Dr. Franklin and Malthus, for

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luxuries are cheap. But he pays for the one convenience of a better dinner, by the loss of some of the richest social and educational advantages. He has lost what guards! what incentives! He will perhaps find by and by that he left the Muses at the door of the hotel, and found the Furies, inside. Money often costs too much, and power and pleasure are not cheap. The ancient poet said, "The gods sell all things at a fair price." There is an example of the compensations in the commercial history of this country. When the European wars threw the carrying-trade of the world, from 1800 to 18I2, into American bottoms, a seizure was now and then made of an American ship_ Of course the loss was serious to the owner: but the country was indemnified; for we charged threepence a pound for carrying cotton, sixpence for tobacco, and so on; which paid for the risk and loss, and brought into the country an immense prosperity, early marriages, private wealth, the building of cities and of states; and after the war was over, we received compensation over and above, by treaty, for all the seizures. Well, the Americans grew rich and great. But the pay-day comes round. Britain, France and Germany, which our extraordinary profits had impoverished, send out, attracted by the fame of our advantages, first their thousands, then their millions of poor people, to share the crop. At first we employ them, and increase our prosperity; but in the artificial system of society and of protected labor" which we also have adopted and enlarged, there come presently checks and stoppages. Then we refuse to employ these poor men. But they will not be so answered. They go into the poor-rates, and though we refuse wages, we must now pay the same amount in the form of taxes. Again, it turns out that the largest proportion of crimes are committed by foreigners. The cost of the crime and the expense of courts and of prisons we must bear, and the standing army of preventive police we must pay. The cost of education of the posterity O,f this great colony, I will not compute. But the gross amount of these costs will begin to pay back what we thought was a net gain from our transatlantic customerf of 1800. It is vain to refuse this payment. We cannot get rid 0,( these people, and we cannot get rid of their will to be supported.

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That has become an inevitable element of our politics; and, for .their votes, each of the dominant parties courts and assists them to get it executed. Moreover, wr have to pay, not what would have contented them at home, but what they have learned to think necessary here; so that opinion, fancy and all manner of moral considerations complicate the problem. There are few measures of economy which will bear to be named without disgust; for the subject is tender and we may easily have too much of it, and therein resembles the hideous animalcules of which our bodies are built up-which, offensive in the particular, yet compose valuable and effective masses. Our nature and genius force us to respect ends, whilst we use means. \Ve must use the means, and yet, in our most accurate using somehow screen and cloak them, as we can only give them any beauty by a reflection of the glory of the end. That is the good head, which serves the end and commands the means. The rabble are corrupted by their means; the means are too strong for them, and they desert their end. I. The first of these measures is that each man's expense must proceed from his character. As long as your genius buys, the :.nvestment is safe, though you spend like a monarch. Nature arms each man with some faculty which enables him to do easily some feat impossible to any other, and thus makes him necessary to society_ This native determination guides his labor and his spending. He wants an equipment of means and tools proper to his talent. And to save on this point were to neutralize the special strength and helpfulness of each mind. Do your work, respecting the excellence of the work, and not its acceptableness. This is so much economy that, rightly read, it is the sum of economy_ Profligacy consists not in spending years of tinle or chests of money-but in spending them off the line of your career. The crime which bankrupts men and states is job-work-declining from your main design, to serve a turn here or there. Nothing is beneath you, if it is in the direction of your life; nothing is great or desirable if it is off from that. I think. we are entitled here to draw (L straight line and say that society can never prosper but

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must always be bank.rupt, until every man does that 'vvhich he was created to do. Spend for your expense, and retrencL the expense which is not vours. Allston the painter was wont to say that he built a plain house, and filled it with plain furniture, because he would hold out no bribe to any to visit him who had not similar tastes to his own. We are sympathetic, and, like children, want everything we see. But it is a large stride to independence, when a man, in the discovery of his proper talent, has sunk the necessity for false expenses. As the betrothed maiden by one secure affection is relieved from a system of slaveries-the daily inculcated neces... .sity of pleasing all--so the man who has found what he can do, can spend on that and leave all other spending. Montaigne said, "When he was a younger brother, he went brave in dress and equipage, but afterward his chateau and farms might answer for him." Let a man who belongs to the class of nobles, those namely who have found out that they can do something, relieve himself of all vague squandering on objects not his. Let the realist not mind appearances. Let him delegate to others the costly courtesies and decorations of social life. The virtues are economists, but some of the vices are also. Thus, next to hunlil . . ity, I have noticed that pride is a pretty good husband. A good pride is, as I reckon it, worth fronl five hundred to fifteen hun . . dred a year. Pride is handsome, economical; pride eradicates so many vices, letting none subsist but itself, that it seems as if it were a great gain to exchange vanity for pride. Pride can go without domestics, without fine clothes, can live in a house with two rooms, can eat potato, purslain, beans, lyed corn, can work on the soil, can travel afoot, can talk with poor men, or sit silent well contented in fine saloons. But vanity costs money, labor, horses, men, wOlnen, health and peace, and is still nothing at last; a long way leading nowhere. Only one drawback; proud .Jeople are intolerably selfish, and the vain are gentle and giving. Art is a jealous mistress, and if a man have a genius for painting, poetry, music, architecture or philosophy, he makes a bad husband and an ill provider, and should be wise in season and n'1t fetter himself with duties which will embitter his days and 01

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3poil him for his proper work. We had hI this region, twenty years ago, among our educated men, a sort of Arcadian fanaticism~ a passionate desire to go upon the land and unite farming to intellectual pursuits. Many effected their purpose and made the experiment, and some became downright ploughn1en; but all were cured of their faith that scholarship and practical farming (I mean, with one's own hands) could be united. """'ith brow bent, with firm intent, the pale scholar leaves his desk to draw a freer breath and get a juster statement of his thought, in the garden-walk. He stoops to pull up a purslain or a dock that is choking the young corn, and finds there are two; close behind the last is a third; he reaches out his hand to a fourth, behind that are four thousand and one. He is heated and untuned, and by and by wakes up from his idiot dream of chickweed and red-root, to remember his morning thought, a.nd to find that with his adamantine purposes he has been duped by a dandelion. A garden is like those pernicious machineries we read of every month in the newsp8:pers, which catch a man's coat-skirt or his hand and draw in his arm, his leg and his whole body to irresistible destruction. In an evil hour he pulled down his wall and added a field to his homestead. No land is bad, but land is worse. If a man own land, the land owns him. Now let him leave home, if he dare. Every tree and graft, every hill of melons, row of corn, or quickset hedge; all he has done and all be n1eans to do, stand in his way like duns, when he would go out of his gate. The devotion to these vines and trees he finds poisonous. Long free walks, a circuit of miles, free his brain and serve his body. Long marches are no hardship to him. He believes he composes easily on the hills. But this pottering in a few square yards of garden is dispiriting and drivelling. The smell of the plants has drugged him and robbed him of '=!nergy. He finds a catalepsy in his bones. He grows peevish and poor .. spirited. The genius of reading and of gardening are antagonistic, like resinous and vitreous electricity. One is concentrative in sparks and shocks; the other is diffuse strength; so that each disqualifies its workman for the other's duties.

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An engraver. whose hands must be of an exquisite delicacy of stroke, should not lay stone walls. Sir David Brewster gives exact instructions for luicroscopic observation: "Lie down on your back, and hold the single lens and object over your eye," etc., etc. How much more the seeker of abstract truth, who needs periods of isolation and rapt concentration and almost a going out of the body to think! 2. Spend after your genius, and by syste1'Jz. Nature goes by rule, not by sallies and saltations. There must be system in the economies. Saving and unexpensiveness will not keep the most pathetic family from ruin, nor will bigger incomes make free spending safe. The secret of success lies never in the amount of money, but in the relation of income to outgo; as, after expense has been fixed at a certain point, then new and steady rills of income, though never so slnall, being added, wealth begins. But in ordinary, as means increase, spending increases faster, so that large incomes, in England and elsewhere, are found not to help matters-the eating quality of debt does not relax its voracity . When the cholera is in the potato, what is the use of planting larger crops? In England, the richest country in the universe J I was assured by shrewd observers that great lords and ladies. had no more guineas to give away than other people; that liberal.. ity with money is as rare and as immediately famous a virtue as it is here . Want is a growing giant whom the coat of Have was never large enough to cover. I remember in Warwickshire to have been shown a fair manor, still in the same name as in Shakspeare's time. The rent-roll I was told is some fourteen thousand pounds a year; but when the second son of the late proprietor was born, the father was perplexed how to provide for him. The eldest son ll1USt inherit the 111anor; what to do with this supernumerary? He was advised to breed hhn for the Church and to settle him in the rectorship which was in the gift of the family; which was done . It is a general rule in that country that bigger incomes do not help anybody_ It is commonly observed that a sudden wealth, like a prize drawn in a lottery or a largfe bequest to a poor family, does not permanently enrich. 'fhey

WEALTH 712 have served no apprenticeship to wealth, and with the rapid wealth come rapid claims which they do not know how to deny, and the treasure is quickly dissipated. A systenl must be in every economy, or the best single expedi . . ents are of no avail. A farm is a good thing when it begins and ends with itself, and does not need a salary or a shop to eke it out. Thus, the cattle are a main link in the chain-ring. If the non-conformist or resthetic farmer leaves out the cattle and does not also leave out the want which the cattle must supply, he must fill the gap by begging or stealing. When men now alive were born, the farm yielded everything that was consumed on it.

The farm yielded no money, and the farmer got on without. If he fell sick, his neighbors came in to his aid; each gave a day's work~ or a half day; or lent his yoke of oxen, or his horse, and kent his 'work even; hoed his potatoes, mo\ved his hay, reaped his rye; well knowing that no man could afford to hire labor without selling his land. In autumn a farmer could sell an ox or a hog and get a little money to pay taxes withal. Now, the farmer buys almost all he consumes-tinware, cloth, sugar, tea, coffee, fish, coal, railroad tickets and newspapers. A master in each art is required, because the practice is never with still or dead subjects, but they change in your hands. You think. farm buildings and broad acres a solid property; but its value is flowing like water. It requires as much watching as if yon were decanting wine from a cask. The farmer knows what to do with it, stops every leak, turns all the streamlets to one reservoir and decants wine; but a blunderhead comes out of Cornhill, tries his hand, and it all leaks aflay. So is it with granite streets or timber townships as with fruit or flowers. Nor is any investment so permanent that it can be allowed to remain without incessant watching, as the history of each attempt to lock up an inheritance through two generations for an unborn inheritor may show. ,"Vhen Mr. Cockayne takes a cottage in the country, and will keep his cow, be thinks a cow is a creature that is fed on hay and gives a pail of milk twice a day. But the cow that he buys gives milk for three months; then her bag dries up. What to do with a

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dry cow? who will buy her? Perhaps he bought also a yoke of oxen to do his work; but they get blown and lame. What to do with blown and lame oxen? The farmer fats his after the spring work is done, and kills them in the fall. But how can Cockayne, who has no pastures, and leaves his cottage daily in the cars at business hours, be pothered with fatting and killing oxen? He plants trees; but there must be crops, to keep the trees in ploughed land. What shall be the crops? He will have nothing to do with trees, but will have grass. After a year or two the grass must be turned up and ploughed; now what crops? Credulous Cockayne! 3. Help comes in the custom of the country, and the rule of Impera parendo. The rule is not to dictate nor to insist on carry.. ing out each of your schemes by ignorant wilfulness, but to learn practically the secret spoken from all nature, that things themselves refuse to be mismanaged, and will show to the watchful their own law. Nobody need stir hand or foot. The custom of the country will do it all. I know not how to build or to plant; neither how to buy wood, nor what to do with the house-lot, the field, or the wood-lot, when bought. Never fear; it is all settled how it shall be, long beforehand, in the custom of the country--whether to sand or whether to clay it, when to plough, and how to dress, whether to grass or to corn; and you cannot help 01 hinder it. Nature has her own best mode of doing each thing. and she bas somewhere told it plainly, if we will keep our eyes and ears open. If not, she will not be slow in undeceiving us when we prefer our own way to hers. How often we must remember the art of the surgeon, which, in replacing the broken bone, contents itself with releasing the parts from false position; they fly intoplace by the action of the muscles. On this art of nature all our arts rely_ Of the two eminent engineers in the recent construction of railways in England, 1fr. Brunei went straight from terminus to terminus, through mountains, over streams, crossing highways, cutting ducal estates in two, and shooting through this man's cellar and that man's attic window, and so arriving at his end, at great pleasure to geolneters, but with cost to his company .

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Mr. Stephenson on the contrary, believing that the river knows the way, followed his valley as implicitly as our Western Railroad follows the Westfield River, and turned out to be the safest and cheapest engineer. We say the cows laid out Boston. Well, there are worse surveyors. Every pedestrian in our pastures has frequent occasion to thank the cows for cutting the best path through the thicket and over the hills; and travellers and Indians know the value of a buffalo-trail, which is sure to be the easiest possible pass through the ridge. When a citizen fresh from Dock Square or IVIilk Street comes out and buys land in the country, his first thought is to a fine outlook from his windows; his library must command a western view; a sunset every day, bathing the shoulder of Blue Hills, Wachusett, and the peaks of l\1onadnoc and Uncanoonuc. What, thirty acres, and all this magnificence for fifteen hundred dollars! It would be cheap at fifty thousand. He proceeds at once, bis eyes dim with tears of joy, to fix the spot for his cornerstone. But the man who is to level the ground thinks it will take many hundred loads of gravel to fill the hollow to the' road. The stonemason who should build the well thinks he shall have to dig forty feet; the baker doubts he shall never like to drive up to the door; the practical neighbor cavils at the position of the barn; and the citizen comes to know that his predecessor the farmer built the house in the right spot for the sun and wind, the spring, and water-drainage, and the convenience to the pasture, the garden, the field and the road. So Dock Square yields the point, and things have their own way. Use has made the farmer wise, and the foolish citizen learns to take his counsel. From step to step he comes at last to surrender at discretion. The farmer affects to take his orders; but the citizen says, You may ask me as often as you YVill, and in what ingenious forms, for an opinion concern~ mode of building my wall, or sinking my well, or laying oCt my acre, but the ball will rebound to you. These are matters on which I neither know nor need to know anything. These are questions which you and not I shall answer. t-~ot less within doors a system settles itself, paramount and tyrannical over master and mistress, servant and child, cousin

me

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and acquaintance. 'T is in vain that genius or virtue or energy of character strive and cry against it. This is fate. And 't is very well that the poor husband reads a book of a new way of living, and resolves to adopt it at home; let him go home and try it, if he dare. 4. Another point of economy is to, look for seed of the same kind as you sow, and not io hope to buy one kind with another kind. Friendship buys friendship; jU:1tice, justice; military merit, military success. Good husbandry finds wife, children and house... hold. The good merchant, large gains, ships, stocks and money. The good poet, fame and literary ~redit; but not either, the other. Yet there is commonly a confusion of expectations on these points. Hotspur lives for the ~loment, praises himself for it, and despises Furlong, that he does not. Hotspur of course is poor, and Furlong a good provider. The odd circumstance is that Hotspur thinks it a superiority in himself, this improvidence, which ought to be rewarded with FLlrlong's lands. I have not at all completed my d'·sign. But we must not leave the topic without casting one glanc!:': into the interior recesses. It is a doctrine of philosophy that man is a being of degrees; that there is nothing in the world which is not repeated in his body, his body being a sort of miniature 0:- summary of the world; then that there is nothing in his body vlhich is not repeated as in a celestial sphere in his mind; then, there is nothing in his brain which is not repeated in a higher sphere in his moral system . 5. Now these things are so in natcre. All things ascend, and the royal rule of economy is that it sho'J.ld ascend also, or, whatever we do must always have a higher eim. Thus it is a maxim that money is another kind of blood, P~!cunia alter sanguis: or, the estate of a man is only a larger k~.nd of body, and admits of regimen analogous to his bodily circu la tions. So there is no maxim of the merchant which does not admIt of an extended sense, e. g., "Best use of money is to pay debts"; "without incurring the penalties of the thief, though all the legis~ latures vote that it is virtuous, and though there be a general conspiracy among scholars and official persons to hold him up, and to say, "Nothing is good but stealing." A man who commits a crime defeats the end of his existence. He was created for benefit, and he exists for harm; and as well-doing makes power and wisdom, ill-doing takes them away. A man who steals another man's labor st.eals away his own faculties; his integrity, his humanity is fiowinuway from him. The habit of oppression cuts out the moral eyes, and, though the intellect goes on simulating the moral as before, its sanity is gradually destroyed. It takes away the presentiments. I suppose in general this is allowed, that if you have a nice question of right and wrong, you would not go with it to Louis Napoleon, or to a political hack, or to a slave-driver. The habit of mind of traders in power would not be esteemed favorable to delicate moral perception. American slavery affords no exception to this rule. No excess of good nature or of tenderness in indi.. viduals has been able to give a new character to the system, to tear down the whipping-house. The plea in the mouth of a slaveholder that the negro is an inferior race sounds very oddly in my ear. "The masters of slaves seem generally anxious to prove that they are not of a race superior in any noble quality to the meanest of their bondmen." And indeed when the Southerner points to the anatomy of the negro, and talks of chimpanzee-I recall Montesquieu's remark, "It will not do to say that negroes are men, lest it should turn out that whites are not." Slavery is disheartening; but Nature is not so helpless but it can rid itself at last of every wrong. But the spasms of Nature are centuries and ages, and will tax the faith of short-lived men. Slowly, slowly the Avenger comes, but comes surely_ The prov-

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erbs of the nations affirm these delays, but affirm the arrival. They say, "God may consent, but not forever." The delay of the Divine Justice-this was the meaning and soul of the Greek Tragedy; this the soul of their religion. "There bas come, too, one to whom lurking warfare is dear, Retribution, with a soul full of wiles; a violator of hospitality; guileful without the guilt of guile; limping, late in her arrivaL" They said of the happiness of the unjust, that" at its close it begets itself an offspring and does not die childless, and instead of good fortune, there sprouts forth for posterity ever-ravening calamity"-

"For evil word shall evil word be said, For murder-stroke a murder-stroke be paid. Who smites must smart." These delays, you see them now in the temper Df the times. The national spirit in this country is so drowsy, preoccupied with interest, deaf to principle. The Anglo-Saxon race is proud and strong and selfish. They believe only in Anglo-Saxons. In 1825 Greece found America deaf, Poland found America deaf, Italy .3.nd Hungary found her deaf. England maintains trade, not liberty; stands against Greece; against Hungary; against Schleswig-Holstein; against the French Republic whilst it was a republic. To faint hearts the times offer no invitation, and torpor exis~ here throughout the active classes on the subject of domesti( slavery and its appalling aggressions. Yes, that is the stern edici of Providence, that liberty shall be no hasty fruit, but that event on event, population on population, age on age, shall cast itself into the opposite scale, and not until liberty has slowly accumulated weight enough to countervail and preponderate against all this, can the sufficient recoil come. All the great cities, all the refined circles, all the statesmen, Guizot, Palmerston, Webster, Calhoun, are sure to be found befriending liberty with their words, and crushing it with their votes. Liberty is never cheap. It is made difficult, because freedom is the accomplishment and perfectness of man. He is a finished man; earning and bestowing good: equal to the world; at home in Nature and dignifying

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that; the sun does not see anything nobler, and has nothing to teach him. Therefore mountains of difficulty must be sur.. mounted, stern trials met, wiles of seduction, dangers, healed by a quarantine of calamities to measure his strength before he dare say, I am free. Whilst the inconsistency of slavery with the principles on which the world is built guarantees its downfall, I own that the patience it requires is almost too sublime for mortals, and seems to demand of us more than mere hoping. And when one sees how fast the rot spreads-it is growing serious-I think we demand of superior men that they be superior in this-that the mind and the virtue shall give their verdict in their day, and accelerate so far the progress of civilization. Possession is sure to throw its stupid strength for existing power, and appetite and ambition .will go for that. Let the aid of virtue, intelligence and education be cast where they rightfully belong. They are organically ours. Let them be loyal to their own. I wish to see the instructed class here know their own flag, and not fire on their comrades. We should not forgive the clergy for taking on every issue the il~­ -moral side; nor the Bench, if it put itself on the side of the ccl~ prit; nor the Government, if it sustain the mob against the law. It is a potent support and ally to a brave man standing single, or with a few, for the right, and out-voted and ostracized, to know that better men in other parts of the country appreciate the service and will rightly report him to his own and the next age. Without this assurance, he will sooner sink. He may well say, 'If my countrymen do not care to be defended, I too will decline the controversy, from which I only reap invectives and hatred.' Yet the lovers of liberty Inay with reason tax the coldness and indifferentism of scholars and literary men. They are lovers of liberty in Greece and ROlne and in the English Com~ monwealth, but they are lukewarm lovers of the liberty of America in 1854. The universities are not, as in Hobbes's time, "the core of rebellion," no, but the seat of inertness. They have forgotten their allegiance to the Muse, and grown worldly and political. I listened, lately, on one of those occasions when the un.jYersity chooses one of its distinguished sons returning from

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the political arena, believing that senators and statesmen would be glad to throw off the harness and to dip again in the Castalian pools. But if audiences forget themselves, statesmen do not. The low bows to all the crockery gods of the day were duly madeonly in one part of the discourse the orator allowed to transpire~ rather against his will, a little sober sense. It was this: 'I am, as, you see, a man virtuously inclined, and only corrupted by my profession of politics. I should prefer the right side. You, gentlemen of these literary and scientific schools, and the important class you represent, have the power to make your verdict cleal" and prevailing. Had you done so, you would have found me its. glad organ and champion. Abstractly, I should have preferred that side. But you have not done it. You have not spoken out .. You have failed to arm me. I can only deal with masses as I find them. Abstractions are not for me. I go then for such parties and opinions as have provided me with a working apparatus . I give you my word, not without regret, that I was first for you; and though I am now to deny and condemn you, you see it is not my will but the party necessity.' Having made this manifesto and professed his adoration for liberty in the time of his grandfathers, he proceeded with his work of denouncing freedom and freemen. at the present day, much in the tone and spirit in which Lord· Bacon prosecuted his benefactor Essex. He denounced every name and aspect under which liberty and progress dare shov) themselves in this age and country, but with a lingering con·· science which qualified each sentence with a recommendation to mercy. But I put it to every noble and generous spirit, to every poetic, every heroic, every religious heart, that not so is our learning, our education, our poetry, our worship to be declared . Liberty is aggressive, Liberty is the Crusade of all brave and conscientious men, the Epic Poetry, the new religion, the chivalry of all gentlemen. This is the oppressed Lady whom true knights on their oath and honor must rescue and save. Now at last we are disenchanted and shall have no more false hopes. I respect the Anti-Slavery Society. It is the Cassandra that b:ls foretold all that has befallen, fact for fact, years ago;

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foretold all, and no man laid it to heart. It seemed, as the Turks say, "Fate makes that a man should not believe his own eyes;" But the Fugitive Law did much to unglue the eyes of men, and now the Nebraska Bill leaves us staring. The Anti-Slavery Society will add many members this year. The Whig Party will join it; the Democrats will join it. The population of the free states will join it. I doubt not, at last, the slave states will join it. But be that sooner or later, and whoever comes or stays away, I hope we have reached the end of our unbelief, have come to a belief that there is a divine Providence in the world, which will not save us but througb our. own cooperation.

JOHN BROWN [When E11zerson delivered this speech in Boston on Novernber 18,1859, John Brown was under sentence of death for his raid at Harper's Ferry. He was executed two weeks later. Emerson had known Brown personally and had entertained him at his home in Concord when Brown can~e to address a public meeting. Emerson made another address on John Brown at Salem on the day when Brown was executed in Charlestown. W. Va.]

John Brown in Kansas settled, like a steadfast Yankee farmer, Brave and godly, with four sons-all stalwart men of might. There he spoke aloud for Freedom, and the Border strife grew warmer Till the Rangers fired his dwelling, in his absence, in the night; And Old mown, Osawatomie Brown. Came homeward in the morning to find his house burned down. Then he grasped his trusty rifle, and boldly fought for Freedom; Smote from border unto border the fierce invading band: And he and his brave boys vowed-so might Heaven help and speed 'emThey would save those grand old prairies from the curse that blights the land; And Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Said, 'Boys, the Lord will aid us !' and he shoved his ram rod down." EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN,

John Brown.

JOHN BROWN MR.

I share the sympathy and sorrow which brought us together. Gentlemen who have preceded me have well said that no wall of separation could here exist. This commanding event which has brought us together" eclipses all others which have occurred for a long time in our history, and I am very glad to see that this sudden interest in the hero of Harper's Ferry has provoked an extreme curiosity in all parts of the Republic, in regard to the details of his history. Every anecdote is eagerly sought, and I do not wonder that gentlenlen find traits of relation readily between him and themselves. One finds a relation in the church, another in the profes.. sien, another in the place of his birth. He was happily a representative of the American Republic. Captain John Brown is a farmer, the fifth in descent from Peter Brown, who came to Plymouth in the Mayflower, in 1620. All the six have been farmers. His grandfather, of Simsbury, in Connecticut, was a captain in the Revolution. His father, largely interested as a raiser of stock, became a contractor to supply the army with beef, in the war ot 1812, and our Captain John Brown, then a boy, with his father was present and witnessed the surrender of General Hull. He cherishes a great respect for his father, as a man of strong character, and his respect is probably just. For himself, he is so transparent that all men see him through. He is a man to make friends wherever on learth courage and integrity are esteemed, the rarest of heroes, a pure idealist, with no by-ends of his own. Many of you have seen him, and everyone who has heard him speak has been impressed alike by his simple, artless goodness, joined with his sublime courage. He joins that perfect Puritan faith which brought his fifth ancestor to Plymouth Rock with his grandfather's ardor in the Revolution. He believes in two articlestwo instruments, shall I say?-the Golden Rule and the DeclaCHAIRMAN, AND FELLOW CITIZENS:

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ration of Independence; and he used this expression in conversation here concerning thenl, "Better that a whole generation of men, women and children should pass away by a violent death than that one word of either should be violated in this country." There is a Unionist-there is a strict constructionist for you. He believes in the Union of the States, and he conceives that the only obstruction to the Union is Slavery, and for that reason, as a patriot, he works for its abolition. The governor of Virginia has pronounced his eulogy in a manner that discredits the moderation of our timid parties. His own speeches to the court have interested the nation in him. What magnanimity, and what inno.. cent pleading, as of childhood! You remember his words: "If I had interfered in behalf of the rich, the powerful, the intelli.. gent, the so.. called great, or any of their friends, parents, wives or children, it would all have been right. But I believe that to have interfered as I have done, for the despised poor, was not wrong, but right." It is easy to see what a favorite he will be with history, which plays such pranks with temporary reputations. Nothing can resist the sympathy which all elevated minds must feel with Brown, and through them the whole civilized world; and if be must suffer, he must drag official gentlemen into an immortality most undesirable, of which they have already some disagreeable forebodings. Indeed, it is the reductio ad absurdum of Slavery, when the governor of Virginia is forced to hang a man whom he declares to be a man of the most integrity, truthfulness and courage he has ever met. Is that the kind of man the gallows is built for? It were bold to affirm that there is within that broad commonwealth, at this moment, another citizen as worthy to live, and as deserving of all public and private honor, as this • poor prIsoner. But we are here to think of relief for the family of John Brown. To my eyes, that family looks very large and very needy of relief. It comprises his brave fellow sufferers in the Charlestown Jail; the fugitives still hunted in the mountains of Virginia and Pennsylvania; the sympathizers with him in all the states; and, I may say, almost every man who loves the Golden Rule and

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the Declaration of Independence, like him, and who sees what a tiger's thirst threatens him in the malignity of public sentiment in the slave states. It seems to me that a common feeling joins the people of Massachusetts with him. I said John Brown was an idealist . He believed in his ideas to that extent that he existed to put them all into action; he said 'he did not believe in moral suasion, he believed in putting the thing through.' He saw how deceptive the forms are. We fancy, in Massachusetts, that we are free; yet it seems the government is quite unreliable . Great wealth, great population, men of talent in the executive, on the bench-all the forms rightand yet, life and freedom are not safe. Why? Because the judges rely on the forms, and do not, like John Brown, use their eyes to see the fact behind the forms. They assume that the United States can protect its witness or its prisoner. And in Massachusetts that is true, but the moment he is carried out of the bounds of Massachusetts, the United States, it is notorious, afford no protection at all; the government, the judges, are an envenomed party, and give such protection as they give in Utah to honest citizens, or in Kansas; such protection as they gave to their own Con1modore Paulding, when he was simple enough to mistake the formal instructions of his government for their real meaning. The state judges fear collision between their two allegiances; but there are worse evils than collision; namely, the doing substantial injustice. A good man will see that the use of a judge is to secure good government, and where the citizen's weal is imperilled by abuse of the federal power, to use that arm which can secure it, viz., the local government. Had that been done on certain calamitous occasions, we should not have , seen the honor of Massachusetts trailed in the dust, stained to all ages, once and again, by the ill-timed formalism of a venerable bench. If judges cannot find law enough to maintain the sovereignty of the state, and to protect the life and freedom of every inhabitant not a criminal, it is idle to compliment them as learned and venerable. What avails their learning or veneration? At a pinch, they are no more use than idiots. After the mischance they wring their hands, but they had better never

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have been born. A Vermont judge, Hutchinson, who has the Declaratiol1 of Independence in his heart; a Wisconsin judge, who knows that laws are for the protection of citizens against kidnappers, is worth a court-house full of lawyers so idolatrous of forms as to let go the substance. Is any nlan in Massachusetts so simple as to believe that when a United States Court in Virginia, now, in its present reign of terror, scnds to Connecticut, or New York, or Massachusetts, for a witness, it wants him for a witness? No; it wants hiIn for a party; it wants him for meat to slaughter and eat. And your habeas corpus is, in any way in which it has been, or, I fear, is likely to be used, a nuisance, and not a protection; for it takes away his right reliance on himself, and the natural assistance of his friends and fellow citizens, by offering him a form which is a piece of paper. But I am detaining the meeting on matters which others un... derstand better . I hope, then, that, in adlninistering relief to John Brown's family, we shall remember all those whom his fate concerns, all who are in sympathy with hhn, and not forget to aid him in the best way, by securing freedom and independence in Massachusetts.

THE EMANCIPA.TION PROCLAMATION [E1ne1'son spoke with others at a meeting held in Boston in September, 1862, to celebrate the significance of the E1nancipation Proclamation which Lincoln had issued on September 22. This address was published in tjl.e Atlantic l\1onthly jor November>. 1862.]

,

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,

To-day unbind the captive, So only are ye unbound; Lift up a people from the dust, Trump of their rescue, sound!

Pay ransom to the owner And fill the bag to the brim. Who is the owner? The slave is owner And ever was. Pay him.

o North! give him beauty

lor rags, And honor, 0 South! for his shame; Nevada! coin thy golden crags With freedom's image and name. Up ! and the dusky race That sat in darkness longBe swift their feet as antelopes, And as behemoth strong.

.

,

Come, East and West and N ortb, By races, as snow-flakes, And carry my purpose forth, Which neither halts nor shakes.

My will fulfilled shall be, For in daylight or in dark, My thunderbolt has eyes to see His way home to the mark.

1'fIE EMANCIPATION PROCLAMATION IN so many arid forms which states encrust themselves with) once in a century, if so often, a poetic act and record occur, These are the jets of thought into affairs, when, roused by danger or inspired by genius, the political leaders of the day break the else insurmountable routine of class and locallegislation, and take a step forward in the direction of catholic and universal interests. Every step in the history of political liberty is a sally of the human mind into the untried Future, and has the interest of genius, and is fruitful in heroic anecdotes. Liberty is a slow fruit. It comes, like religion, for short periods, and in rare conditions, as if awaiting a culture of the race which shall make it organic and permanent. Such moments of expansion in modern history were the Confession of Augsburg, the plantation of Anlerica, the English Commonwealth of 1648, the Declaration of American Independence in 1776, the British emancipation of slaves in the West Indies, the passage of the Reform Bill, the repeal of the Corn-Laws, the Magnetic Ocean Telegraph, though yet imperfect, the passage of the Homestead Bill in the last Congress, and now, eminently, President Lincoln's Proclamation on the twenty-second of September. These are acts of great scope, working on a long future and on penna... nent interests, and honoring alike those who initiate and those who receive them. These measures provoke no noisy joy, but are received into a sympathy so deep as to apprise us that mankind are greater and better than we know. At such times it appears as if a new public were created to greet the new event. It is as when an orator, having ended the compliments and pleasantries with which he conciliated attention, and having run over the superficial fitness and commodities of the measure he urges, suddenly, lending himself to some happy inspiration, announce~ with vibrating voice the grand human principles involved-the bravos and wits who greeted him loudly thus far are surprised 88~

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and overawed; a new audience is found in the heart of the assembly-an audience hitherto passive and unconcerned, now at last so searched and kindled that they come forward, every one a representative of mankind, standing for all nationalities. The extreme moderation with which the President advanced to his design-his long-avowed expectant policy, as if he chose to be strictly the executive of the best public sentiment of the country, waiting only till it should be unmistakably pronounced -so fair a mind that none ever listened so patiently to such extreme varieties of opinion-so reticent that his decision has taken all parties by surprise, whilst yet it is just the sequel of his prior acts-the firm tone in which he announces it, without inflation or surplusage-all these have bespoken such favor to the act that, great as the popularity of the President has been, we are beginning to think that we have underestimated the capacity and virtue which the Divine Providence has made an in. . strument of benefit so vast. He has been permitted to do more for America than any other American man. He is well entitled to the most indulgent construction. Forget all that we thought shortcomings, every mistake, every delay. In the extreme em.. barrassments of his part, call these endurance, wisdom, magna.. nimity; illuminated, as they now are, by this dazzling success. When consider the immense opposition that has been neutralized or converted by the progress of the war (for it is not long since the President anticipated the resignation of a large number of officers in the army, and the secession of three states, on the promUlgation of this policy)-when we see how the great stake which foreign nations hold in our affairs has recently brought every European power as a client into this court, and it became every day more apparent what gigantic and what remote interests were to be affected by the decision of the Presidentone can hardly say the deliberation was too long. Against all timorous counsels he had the courage to seize the moment; and such was his position, and such the felicity attending the action, that he has replaced government in the good graces of ma.nkind. "Better is virtue in the sovereign than plenty in the ~ason," say the Chine~. "1l\ ~ wonderful what power is, and

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how ill it is used, and how its ill use makes life mean, and the sunshine dark. Life in America had lost much of its attraction in the later years. The virtues of a good magistrate undo a world of mischief, and, because Nature works with rectitude, seem vastly more potent than the acts of bad governors, which are ever tempered by the good nature in the people, and the incessant resistance which fraud and violence encounter. Th€; acts of good governors work a geometrical ratio, as one midsum. . mer day seems to repair the damage of a year of war. A day which most of us dared not hope to see, an event worth the dreadful war, worth its costs and uncertainties, seems now to be close before us. October, November, December will have passed over beating hearts and plotting brains: then the hour will strike, and all men of African descent who have faculty enough to find their way to our lines are assured of the pro., 1ection of American law. It is by no means necessary that this measure should be suddenly marked by any signal results on the negroes or on the rebel masters. The force of the act is that it commits the country to this justice-that it compels the innumerable officers, civil, military, naval, of the Republic to range themselves on the line of this equity. It draws the fashion to this side. It is not a lneasure that admits of being taken back. Done, it cannot b~ undone by a new administration. For slavery overpowers thd disgust of the moral sentiment only through immemorial usage_ It cannot be introduced as an improvement of the nineteenth century. This act makes that the lives of our heroes have not been sacrificed in vaill. It makes a victory of our defeats. Our hurts are healed; the health of the nation is repaired. With a victory like this, we can stand many disasters. It does 110t pron1ise the redelnption of the black race; that lies not with us: but it relieves it of our opposition. The President by this act has paroled all the slaves in America; they will no more fight against ( us: and it relieves our race once for all of its crime and false . position. The first condition of success is secured in putting ourselves right. We have recovered ourselves from our false position, and planted ourselves on a law of Nature:-

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"If that fail, The pillared firmament is rottenness, . And earth's base built on stubble." The government has assured itself of the best constituency in the world: every spark of intellect, every virtuous feeling, every religious heart, every man of honor, every poet, every philoso:.. pher, the generosity of the cities, the health of the country, the strong arms of the mechanic, the endurance of farmers, the passionate conscience of women, the sympathy of distant nations -all rally to its support. Of course, we are assuming the firmness of the policy thus declared. It must not be a paper proclamation. We confide that Mr. Lincoln is in earnest, and as he has been slow in making up his mind, has resisted the importunacy of parties and of events to the latest moment, he will be as absolute in his adhesion. Not only will he repeat and follow up his stroke, but the nation will add its irresistible strength. If the ruler has duties, so has the citizen . In times like these, when the nation is imperilled, what man can, without shame, receive good news from day to day without giving good news of himself? What right has any one to read in the journals tidings of victories, if he has not bought them by his own valor, treasure, personal sacrifice, or by service as good in his own department? With this blot removed from our national honor, this heavy load lifted off the national heart, we shall not fear henceforward to show our faces among mankind. We shall cease to be hypocrites and pretenders, but what we have styled our free institutions will be such. In the light of this event the public distress begins to be lemoved. What if the brokers' quotations show our stocks discredited, and the gold dollar costs one hundred and twentyseven cents? These tables are fallacious. Every acre in the free states gained substantial value on the twenty-second of September . The caU3e of disunion and war has been reached and begun to be removed. Every man's house-lot and garden are relieved of the malaria which the purest winds and strongest sunshine could not penetrate and purge. The territory of the Union shines te-day with a lustte which every EuroPean emi~

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grant can discern from far; a sign of inmost security and permanence. Is it feared that taxes will check immigration? That depends on what the taxes are spent for. If they go to fill up this yawning Dismal Swamp, which engulfed armies and popu... lations, and created plague, and neutralized hitherto all the vast capabilities of this continent-then this taxation, which makes the land wholesome and habitable, and will draw all men unto it, is the best investment in which property-holder ever lodged his earnings. Whilst we have pointed out the opportuneness of the Proclamation, it remains to be said that the President had no choice. He might look wistfully for what variety of courses lay open to him; every line but one was closed up with fire. This one, too, bristled with danger, but through it was the sole safety. The measure he has adopted was imperative. It is wonderful to see the unseasonable senility of what is called the Peace Party, through all its masks, blinding their eyes to the main feature of the war, namely, its inevitableness. The war existed long before the cannonade of Sumter, and could not be postponed. It might have begun otherwise or elsewhere, but war was in the minds and bones of the combatants, it was written on theiron leaf, and you might as easily dodge gravitation. If we had consented to a peaceable secession of the rebels, the divided sentiment of the border states made peaceable secession impos. . sible, the insatiable temper of the South made it impossible, and the slaves on the border, wherever the border might be, wer~ an incessant fuel to rekindle the fire. Give the Confederacy New Orleans, Charleston, and Richmond, and they would have demanded St. Louis and Baltimore. Give them these, and they would have insisted on Washington. Give them Washington, and they would have assumed the army and navy, and, through these, Philadelphia, New York, and Boston. It looks as if the battle... field would have been at least as large in that event as it is now. The war was formidable, but could not be avoided. The war was and is an immense mischief, but brought with it thE. immense benefit of dra,,!,ing a line and rallying the free states to fix it impassably-preventing the whole force of Southern

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connection and influence throughout the North from distracting every city with endless confusion, detaching that force and reducing it to handfuls, and, in the progress of hostilities, dis .. infecting us of our habitual proclivity, through the affection of trade and the traditions of the Democratic party, to follow Southern leading. These necessities which have dictated the conduct of the federal government are overlooked especially by our foreign critics. The popular statement of the opponents of the war abroad is the impossibility of our success. "If you could add," say they, "to your strength the whole army of England, of France and of Austria, you could not coerce eight millions of people to come under this government against their will." This is an odd thing for an Englishman, a Frenchman or an Austrian to say, who remembers Europe of the last seventy, years-the condition of Italy, until 1859-of Poland, since 1793-of France, of French Algiers-of British Ireland, and British India. But granting the truth, rightly read, of the historical aphorism, that "the peoplE: always conquer," it is to be noted that, in the Southern States, the tenure of land and the local laws, with slavery, give the social systeln not a democratic but an aristocratic complexion; and those states have shown every year a more hostile and aggressive temper, until the instinct of self-preservation forced us into the war. And the aim of the war on our part is indicated by the aim of the President's Proclamation, namely, to break IIp the false combination of Southern society, to destroy the piratic feature in it which makes it our enemy only as it is the enemy of the human race, and so allow its reconstruction on a just and healthful basis. Then new affinities will act, the old repulsion will cease, and, the cause of war being removed, Na. . ture and trade may be trusted to establish a lasting peace. We think. we cannot overstate the wisdom and benefit of this act of the government. The malignant cry of the Secession press within the free states, al1d the recent action of the Con. . federate Congress, are decisive as to its efficiency and correctness of aim. Not less so is the silent joy which has greeted it in all generous hearts, and the new hope it has breathed into

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the world. It was well to delay the steamers at the wharves until this edict could be put on board. It will be an insurance to the ship as it goes plunging through the sea with glad tidings to all people~ Happy are the young, who find the pestilence cleansed out of the earth, leaving open to them an honest career. Happy the old, who see Nature purified before they depart. Do not' let the dying die: hold them back to this world, untj! you havf charged their ear and heart with this message to oth(;T spiritua. societies, announcing the melioration of our planet:--. 4

"Incertainties now crown themselves assured, And Peace proclaims olives of endless age." Meantime that ill-fated, much-injured race which th 3 Pracla·, matian respects will lose somewhat of the dejection sculptured for ages in their bronzed countenance, uttered in the wai1in~ of their plaintive music-a race naturally benevolent, docile, industrious, and whose very miseries sprang from their great talent for usefulness, which, in a more moral age, will not only defend their independence, but will give them a rank among t

nations.

THOREAU [Thoreau and Emerson wC"c neighbors and friends during most oj Thoreau's 1nature years. Thoreau was fourteen years Emerson's junior. In I84I Thoreau lived in Emerson's home as a member oj the jo.m.ily, freeing Emerson from many practical duties jor whick he was unfitted; and he lived there again in 1847"48 when Emerson was in England. Thoreau built his renowned hut at Walden Pond on land that belonged to Emerson. There were marked differences in temperament that made friendship harsh and difficult at times, and apparently there were also periods oj estrangement. But Thoreau believed in Emerson's philosophy; and being of passionate dis ... position carried the philosophy to its logical conclusion of personal rebellion. Thoreau died from tu . . berculosis on May 6, 1862. Emerson made the address at the funeral services. In August it was pri'htecl with some Ghanges in the Atlantic Monthly. Thi'7 iI tke printed version of the memorial address,]

A queen rejoices in her peers, And wary Nature knows her own, By court and city, dale and down, And like a lover volunteers, And to her son will treasures more, And more to purpose, freely pour In one wood walk, than learned men Will find with glass in ten times ten. It seemed as if the breezes brought him, It seemed as if the sparrows taught him!, As if by secret sign he knew Where in far fields the orchis grew.

THOREAU was the last male descendant of il French ancestor who came to this country from the Isle of Guernsey - His character exhibited occasional traits drawn from this blood, in singular combination with a very strong Saxon fIENRY DAVID THOREAU

• genIus.

He was born in Concord, Massachusetts, on the 12th of July, 1817- He was graduated at Harvard College in 1837, but without any literary distinction. An iconoclast in literature, he seldom thanked colleges for their service to him, holding them in small esteem, whilst yet his debt to them was important. After leaving the University, he joined his brother in teaching a private school, which he soon renounced. His father was a manufacturer of lead-pencils, and Henry applied himself for a time to this craft, believing he could make a better pencil than was then in use. After completing his experiments, he exhibited his work to chemists and artists in Boston, and having obtained their certificates to its excellence and to its equality with the best London manufacture, he returned home contented. His friends congratulated him that he had now opened his way to fortune. But he replied that he should never make another pencil. '(Why should I? I would not do again what I have done once." He resumed his endless walks and miscellaneous studies, making every day some new acquaintance with Nature, though as yet never speaking of zoology or botany, since, thougb very studious of natural facts, he was incurious of technical and textual science. At this time, a strong, healthy youth, fresh from college, whilst all his companions were choosing their profession, or eager to begin some lucrative employment, it was inevitable that his thoughts should be exercised on the same question, and it required rare decision to refuse all the accustomed paths and keep his solitary freedom at the cost of disappointing the naturaJ 895

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expectations of his family and friends: all the more difficult that he had a perfect probity, was exact in securing his own independence, and in holding every man to the like duty_ But Thoreau never faltered. He was a born protestant. He de.. clined to give up his large ambition of knowledge and action for any narrow craft or profession, aiming at a ll1uch more comprehensive calling, the art of living well. If he slighted and defied the opinions of others, it was only that he was more intent to reconcile his practice with his own belief. Never idle or selfindulgent, he preferred, when he wanted money, earning it by some piece of manual labor agreeable to him, as building a boat or a fence, planting, grafting, surveying or other short work, to any long engagements. With his hardy habits and few wants, his skill in wood-craft, and his powerful arithmetic, he was very competent to live in any part of the world. It would cost him less time to supply his wants than another _ He was therefore secure of his leisure. . A natural skill for mensuration, growing out of his mathematical knowledge and his habit of ascertaining the measures and distances of objects which interested him, the size of trees, the depth and extent of ponds and rivers, the height of moun.. tains and the air-line distance of his favorite summits-this, and his intimate knowledge of the territory about Concord, made him drift into the profession of land..surveyor. It had the advantage for him that it led him continually into new and secluded grounds, and helped his studies of Nature. His accuracy and skill in this work were readily appreciated, and he found all the employment he wanted. He could easily solve the problems of the surveyor, but hE. was daily beset with graver questions, which he manfully confronted. He interrogated every custom, and wished to settle all his practice on an ideal foundation. He was a protestant a outrance, and few lives contain so many renunciations. He was bred to no profession; he never married; he lived alone; he never went to church; he never voted; he refused to pay a tax to the State; he ate no flesh, he drank no wine, he never knew the use of tobacco; and, though a naturalist, he used neither

THOREAU

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trap nor gun. He chose, wisely no doubt for himself, to be the bachelor of thought and Nature. He had no talent for wealth, and knew how to be poor without the least hint of squalor ot inelegance. Perhaps he fell into his way of living without fore ... casting it much, but approved it with later wisdom. "I am often reminded," he wrote in his journal, "that if I had bestowed on me the wealth of Crcesus, my aims must be still the same, and my means essentially the same." He had no temptations to fight against-no appetites, no passIons, no taste for elegant trifles. A fine house, dress, the manners and talk of highly culti... vated people were all thrown away on him . He much preferred a good Indian, and considered these refinements as impediments to conversation, wishing to meet his companion on the simplest terms. He declined invitations to dinner-parties, because there each was in everyone's way, and he could not meet the indi . . viduals to any purpose. "They make their pride," he said, 'lin making their dinner cost much; I make my pride in making my dinner cost little/' When asked at table what dish he pre, ferred, he answered, "The nearest." He did not like the taste of wine, and never had a vice in his life. He said-HI have a faint recollection of pleasure derived from smoking dried lilystems, before I was a man. I had commonly a supply of these. I have never smoked anything more noxious." He chose to be rich by making his wants few, and supplying them himself. In his travels, he used the railroad only to get over so much country as was unimportant to the present purpose, walking hundreds of miles, avoiding taverns, buying a lodging in farmers' and fishermen's houses, as cheaper, and more agreeable to him, and because there he could better find the men and the information he wanted. There was somewhat military in his nature, not to be sub ... dued, always manly and able, but rarely tender, as if he did not feel himself except in opposition. He wanted a fallacy to expose, a blunder to pillory, I may say requiTed a little sense of victory, a roll of the drum, to call his powers into full exercise. It cost him nothing to say No; indeed he found it much easier than to say Yes. It seemed as if his first instinct on hearing a

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proposition was to controvert it, so hnpatient was he of the limitations of our daily thought. This habit, of course, is a little chilling to the social affections; and though the companion would in the end acquit him of any malice or untruth, yet it mars conversation. Hence, no equal companion stood in affectionate relations with one so pure and guileless. "I love Henry," said one of his friends, "but I cannot like him; and as for taking his arm, I should as so.on think of taking the arm of an elm-tree." Yet, hermit and stoic as he was, he was really fond of sympathy, and threw himself heartily and childlike into the company of young people whom he loved, and whom he delighted to entertain, as he only eQuId, with the varied and endless anecdotes of his experiences by field and river: and he was always ready to lead a huckleberry-party or a search for chestnuts or grapes. Talking, one day, of a public discourse, Henry reluarked that whatever succeeded with the audience was bad. I said, "Who would not like to write something which all can read, like Robinson Crusoe? and who does not see with regret that his page is not solid with a right materialistic treatment, which delights everybody?" Henry objected, of course, and vaunted the better lectures which reached only a few persons. But, at supper, a young girl, understanding that he was to lecture at the Lyceum, sharply asked him, "Whether his lecture would be a nice, interesting story, such as she wished to hear, or whether it was one of those old philosophical things that she did not care about." Henry turned to her, and bethought himself, and, I saw, was trying to believe that he had matter that might fit her and her brother, who were to sit up and go to the lecture, if it was a good one for them. He was a speaker and actor of the truth, born such, and was ever running into dramatic situations from this cause. In any circumstance it interested all bystanders to know what part Henry would take, and what he would say; and he did not disappoint expectation, but used an original judgment on each emergency. In r845 be built himself a small framed house on the shores of Walden Pond, and lived there two years alone, a life of labor and study. This action was quite native and fit

THOREAU

for him. Noone who knew him would tax him with affectation. He was more unlike his neighbors in his thought than in his action. As soon as he had exhausted the advantages of that solitude, he abandoned it. In 1847, not approving some uses to which the public expenditure was applied, he refused to pay his town tax, and was put in jail. A friend paid the tax for him, and he was released. The like annoyance was threatened the next year. But as his friends paid the tax, notwithstanding his protest, I believe he ceased to resist. No opposition or ridicule had any weight with him. He coldly and fully stated his opinion without affecting to believe that it was the opinion of the company. It was of no consequence if everyone present held the opposite opinion. On one occasion he went to the University Library to procure some books. The librarian refused to lend them. Mr. Thoreau repaired to the President, who stated to hinl the rules and usages, which permitted the loan of books to resident graduates, to clergymen who were alumni, and to some others resident within a circle of ten miles' radius from' the College. Mr. Thoreau explained to the President that the railroad had destroyed the old scale of distances-that the library was useless, yes, and President and College useless, on the terms of his rules-that the one benefit he owed to the College was its library-that, at this moment, not only his want of books was imperative, but he wanted a large number of books, and assured him that he, Thoreau, and not the librarian, was the proper custodian of these. In short, the President found the petitioner so formidable, and the rules getting to look so ridicu.. lous, that he ended by giving him a privilege which in his hands proved unlimited theleafter. No truer American existed than Thoreau. His preference of his country and condition was genuine, and his aversation from English and European manners and tastes almost reached contempt. He listened impatiently to news or bonmots gleaned from London circles; and though he tried to be civil, these anecdotes fatigued him. The men were all imitating each other, and on a snlall mould. Why can they not live as far apart as possible, and each be a man by himself? What he sought was

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the most energetic nature; and he wished to go to Oregon, not to London. "In every part of Great Britain," he wrote in his diary, "are discovered traces of the Romans, their funereal urns, their camps, their roads, their dwellings. But New England, at least, is not based on any Roman ruins. We have not to lay the foundations of our houses on the ashes of a former civilization." But idealist as he was, standing for abolition of slavery, aboli.. tion of tariffs, almost for abolition of government, it is needless to say he found himself not only unrepresented in actual politics, but almost equally opposed to every class of reformers. Yet he paid the tribute of his uniforln respect to the Anti.. Slavery party. One man, whose personal acquaintance he had formed, he honored with exceptional regard. Before the first friendly word had been spoken for Captain John Brown, he sent notices to most houses in Concord that he would speak in a public hall on the condition and character of John Brown, on Sunday evening, and invited all people to come. The Republican Committee, the Abolitionist Committee, sent him word that it was premature and not advisable. He replied-"I did not send to you for advice, but to announce that I am to speak." The hall was filled at an early hour by people of all parties!p and his earnest eulogy of the hero was heard by all respectfully, by many with a sympathy that surprised themselves. It was said of Plotinus that he was ashamed of his body, and 't is very likely he had good reason for it -that his body was a bad servant, and he had not skill in dealing with the material world, as happens often to men of abstract intellect.. But Mr. Thoreau was equipped with a most adapted and serviceable body. He was of short stature, firmly built, of light complexion, 'with strong, serious blue eyes, and a grave aspect-his face covered in the late years with a becoming beard. His senses were acute, his frame well-knit and hardy, his hands strong and skilful in the use of tools. And there was a wonderful fitness of body and mind. He could pace sixteen rods more accurately than another man could measure them with rod and chain. He could find his path in the woods at night, he said, better

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by his feet than his eyes. He could estimate the measure of a tree very well by his eye; he could estimate the weight of a calf or a pig, like a dealer. From a box containing a bushel or more of loose pencils, he could take up with his hands fast enough just a dozen pencils at every grasp. He was a good swimmer, runner, skater, boatman, and would probably out... walk most countrymen in a day's journey. And the relation of body to mind was still finer than we have indicated. He said he wanted every stride his legs made. The length of his walk uni ... formly made the length of his writing. If shut up in the house he did not write at all. He had a strong common sense, like that which Rose Flam. . mock, the weaver's daughter in Scott's romance, commends in her father, as resembling a yardstick, which, whilst it measures dowlas and diaper, can equally well measure tapestry and cloth of gold. He had always a new resource. When I was planting forest trees, and had procured half a peck of acorns, he said that only a small portion of them would be sound, and pro. . ceeded to examine them and select the sound ones. But finding this took time, he said, "1 think if you put them all into water the good ones will sink;" which experiment we tried with success. He could plan a garden or a house or a barn; would have been competent to lead a "Pacific Exploring Expedition;" could give judicious counsel in the gravest private or public affairs. He lived for the day, not cumbered and mortified by his memory. If he brought you yesterday a new proposition, he would bring you to-day another not less revolutionary. A very industrious man, and setting, like all highly organized men, a high value on his time, he seemed the only man of leisure in town, always ready for any excursion that promised well, or for conversation prolonged into late hours. His trenchant sense -was never stopped by his rules of daily prudence, but was always up to the new occasion. He liked and used the simplest food, vet, when some one urged a vegetable diet, Thoreau thought. all diets a very small matter, saying that "the man who shoots the buffalo lives better than the man who boards at the Graham

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House." He said-"You can sleep near the railroad, and never be disturbed: Nature knows very well what sounds are worth attending to, and has made up her mind not to hear the railroad.. "Thistle. But things respect the devout mind, and a mental ecstasy 'Nas never interrupted." He noted what repeatedly befell him, th~t, after receiving from a. distance a rare plant, he would presently find the same in his own haunts. And those pieces of luck which happen only to good players happened to him. One day, walking with a stranger, who inquired where Indian arrow.. heads could be found, he replied, "Everywhere," and, stooping forward, picked one on the instant from the ground. At Mount Washington, in Tuckerman's RavIne, Thoreau had a bad fall, and sprained his foot. As he was in the act of getting up from his fall, he saw for the first time the leaves of the Arnica mollis. His robust common sense, armed with stout hands, keen per. . ceptions and strong will, cannot yet account for the superiority which shone in his simple and hidden life. I must add the cardinal fact, that there was an excellent wisdom in him, proper to a rare class of men, which showed him the material world as a means and symbol. This discovery, which sometimes yields to poets a certain casual and interrupted light, serving for the ornament (If their writing, was in him an unsleeping insight; and whateveJ~ Iu11Its or obstructions of temperalnent might cloud it, he was not disobedient to the heavenly vision. In his youth, he said, one -nay, "The other world is all my art; my pencils will draw n() other; my jack-knife will cut nothing else; I do not use it ;lS a means." This was the muse and geniu-s that ruled his opinio"ns, conversation, studies, work and course of life. This madf. him a searching judge of men. At first glance he measured ldis companion, and, though insens;ible to some fine traits of (:ulture, could very well report hi~ weight and calibre. And this made the impression of genius which his conversation sometimes gave. He understood the matter in hand at a glance, and saw the limitations and poverty of those he talked with, so that nothing seemed concealed from such terrible eyes. I have repeatedly known young men of sensibility converted in a moment to th9

THOREAU

belief that this was the man they were in search of, the man nf men, who could tell thelTI all they should do. His own dealing with them was never affectionate, but superior, didactic, scorn. . ing their petty ways-very slowly conceding, or not conceding at all, the promise of his s0ciety at their houses, or even at his own. "Would he not walk with them?" '~He did not know. There was nothing so important to him as his walk; he had no walks to throwaway on company.)' Visits were offered him ~~rom re. . spectful parties, but he declined ther~. Admiring friends offered to carry him at their own cost to the Yellowstone Rivet-to the West Indies-to South America. But though nothing could be more grave or considered than his refusals, they remind one, in quite new relations, of that fop Brummel's reply to the gentleman who offered him his carriage in a shower, "But where will you ride, then?"-and what accusing silences, and what searching and irresistible speeches, battering down all defences, his companions can remember 1 Mr. Thoreau dedicated his genius with such entire love to the fields, hills and waters of his native town, thallt he made them known and interesting to all reading Alnericans, and to people over the sea. The river on whose banks he was born and died he knew from its springs to its confluence with the Merrimack.. He had Inade summer and winter observations on it for many years, and at every hour of the day and night. The result of the recent survey of the Water Commissioners appointed by the State of Massachusetts he had reached by his private experi.. ments, several years earlier. Every fact which occurs in the bed, on the banks or in the air over it; the fishes, and their spawn ing and nests, their manners, their food; the shad-flies which fill the air on a certain evening once a year, and which are snapped at by the fishes so ravenously that many of these die of repletion; the conical heaps of small stones on the river-shallows, the huge nests of small fishes, one of which will sometimes overfill a cart; the birds which frequent the stream, heron, duck, sheldrake, loon, osprey; the snake, muskrat, otter, wood .. chuck and fox, on the banks; the turtle, frog, hyla and cricket, which make the banks vocal-were all known to him, and, as it

THOREAU

:wreref

~townsmen

and fellow creatures; so that he felt an ab.. surdity or violence in any narrative of one of these by itself 'apart, and still more of its dimensions on an inch-rule, or in the exhibition of its skeleton, or the specimen of a squirrel or a bird in brandy. He liked to speak of the manners of the river, as itself a lawful creature, yet with exactness, and always to an observed fact. As he knew the river, so the ponds in this region. One of the weapons he used, more important to him than microscope, or alcohol-receiver to other investigators, was a whim which grew on him by indulgence, yet appeared in gravest statement, namely, of extolling his own town and neighborhood as the most favored centre for natural observation. He remarked that the Flora of Massachusetts embraced almost all the important plants of America-most of the oaks, most of the willows, the best pines, the ash, the maple, the beech, the nuts. He returned Kane's Arctic Voyage to a friend of whom he had borrowed it, with the remark, that "Most of the phenomena noted might be observed in Concord." He seemed a little envious of the Pole, for the coincident sunrise and sunset, or five minutes' day after six: months: a splendid fact, which Annursnuc had never afforded him. He found red snow in one of his walks, and told me that he expected to find yet the Victoria regia in Concord. He was the attorney of the indigenous plants, and owned to a preference of the weeds to the imported plants, as of the Indian to the civilized man, and noticed, with pleasure, that the willow bean-poles of his neighbor had grown more than his beans. "See these weeds," he said, "which have been hoed at by a million farmers all spring and summer, and yet have prevailed, and just now come out triumphant over all lanes, pastures, fields and gardens, such is their vigor. We have insulted them with low names, too-as Pigweed, Wormwood, Chickweed, Shad-blossom." He says, "They have brave names, too--Ambrosia, Stellaria, Amelanchier, Amaranth, etc." I think. his fancy for referring everything to the meridian of Concord did not grow out of any ignorance or depreciation of other longitudes or latitudes, but was rather a playful expression of his conviction of the indifferency of all places, and that

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the best place for each is where he stands. He expres~~~ in this wise: "1 think nothing is to be hoped from you, if this bit of mould under your feet is not sweeter to you to eat than

any other in this world, or in any world~" The other weapon with which he conquered all obstacles in science was patience. He knew how to sit immovable, a part of the rock he rested on, until the bird, the reptile, the fish, which had retired from him, should come back. and resume its habits, nay, moved by curiosity, should come to him and watch him. It was a pleasure and a privilege to walk with him. He knew the country like a fox or a bird, and passed through it as freely by paths of his own. He knew every track in the snow or on the ground, and what creature had taken this path before him. One must submit abjectly to such a guide, and the reward was great. Under his arm he carried an old music-book to press plants; in his pocket, his diary and pencil, a spy-glass for birds, microscope, jack-knife and twine. He wore a straw bat, stout shoes, strong gray trousers, to brave scrub-oaks and smilax, and to climb a tree for a hawk's or a squirrel's nest. He waded into the pool for the water-plants, and his strong legs were no insignificant part of his armor. On the day I speak of he looked for the Menyanthes, detected it across the wide pool, and, on examination of the florets, decided that it had been in flower five days. He drew out of his breast-pocket his diary, and read the names of all the plants that should bloom on this day, whereof he kept account as a banker when his notes fall due. The Cypripedium not due till to-morrow . He thought that, if waked up from a trance, in this swamp, he could tell by the plants what time of the year it was within two days. The red.. start was flying about, and presently the fine grosbeaks, whose brilliant scarlet "makes the rash gazer wipe his eye," and whose fine clear note Thoreau compared to that of a tanager which has got rid of its hoarseness . Presently he heard a note which he called that of the night-warbler, a bird he had never identified, had been in search of twelve years, which always, when he saw it, was in the act of diving down into a tree or bush, and which it was vain to seek; the only bird which sings indifferently by

1"

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THOREAU

night and by day. I told him he must beware of finding and . booking it, lest life should have nothing more to show him. He said, "What you seek in vain for, half your life, one day you come full upon, all the family at dinner. You seek it like a dream, and as soon as you find it you become its prey." His interest in the flower or the bird lay very deep in his mind, was connected with Nature--and the meaning of Nature was never attempted to be defined by him. He would not offer a memoir of his observations to the Natural History Society. ~'Why should I? To detach the description from its connections in my mind would make it no longer true or valuable to me: and they do not wish what belongs to it." His power of observation seemed to indicate additional senses. He saw as with microscope, heard as with ear-trumpet, and his memory was a photographic register of all he saw and heard. And yet none knew better than he that it is not the fact that imports, but the impression or effect of the fact on your mind. Every fact lay in ~lory in his mind, a type of the order and beauty of the whole. His determination on Natural History was organic. He confessed that he sometimes felt like a hound or a panther, and, if born among Indians, would have been a fell hunter. But, restrained by his Massachusetts culture, he played out the game in this mild form of botany and ichthyology_ His intimacy with animals suggested what Thomas Fuller records of Butler the apiologist, that "either he had told the bees things or the bees had told him." Snakes coiled round his legs; the fishes swam into his hand, and he took them out of the water; he pulled the woodchuck out of its hole by the tail, and took the foxes under his protection from the hunters. Our naturalist had perfect magnanimity; he had no secrets: he would carry you to the heron's haunt, or even to his most prized botanical swamppossibly knowing that you could never find it again, yet willing to take his risks. No college ever offered him. a diploma, or a professor's chair; no academy made him its corresponding secretary, its discoverer or even its member. Perhaps these learned bodies feared the satire of bis presence. Yet so much knowledge of Nature's

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secret and genius few others possessed; none in a more large and religious synthesis. For not a particle of respect had he to the opinions of any man or body of men, but homage solely to the truth itself; and as he discovered everywhere among doctors some leaning of courtesy, it discredited them. He grew to be revered and admired by his townsmen, who had at first known him only as an oddity. The farmers who employed him as a surveyor soon discovered his rare accuracy and skill, his knowledge of their lands, of trees, of birds, of Indian remains and the like, which enabled him to tell every farmer more than he knew before of his own farm; so that he began to feel a little as if Mr. Thoreau had better rights in his land than he. They felt, too, the superiority of character which addressed all men with a native authority. Indian relics abound in Concord-arrow-heads, stone chisels, pestles and fragments of pottery; and on the river . .bank, large heaps of clam-shells and ashes mark spots which the savages frequented. These, and every circumstance touching the Indian, were important in his eyes. His visits to Maine were chiefly for love of the Indian. He had the satisfaction of seeing the manufacture of the bark canoe, as well as of trying his hand in its management on the rapids. He was inquisitive about the nlaking of the stone arrow ..head, and in his last days charged a youth setting out for the Rocky MOl:lntains to find an Indian who could tell him that: "It was well worth a visit to California to learn it." Occasionally, a small party of Penobscot Indians would visit Concord, and pitch their tents for a few weeks in summer QD the river-bank. He failed not to make acquaintance with the best of them; though he well knew that asking questions of Indians is like catechizing beavers and rabbits. In his last visit to Maine he had great satisfaction from J()seph Polis, an intelligent Indian of Oldtown, who was his guide for some weeks. He was equally interested in every natural fact. The depth of his perception found likeness of law throughout Nature, and I know not any genius who so swiftly inferred universal law from the ~ingle fact. He was no pedant of a department. His eye was

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THOREAU

'open to beauty, and his ear to music. He found these, not in Irare conditions, but wheresoever he went. He thought the best lof music was in single strains; and he found poetic suggestion in the humming of the telegraph-wire. His poetry might be bad or good; he no doubt wanted a lyric facility and technical skill, but he had the source of poetry in his spiritual perception. He was a good reader and critic, and his judgment on poetry was to the ground of it. He could not be deceived as to the presence or absence of the poetic element in any composition, and his thirst for this made him negligent and perhaps scornful of superficial graces. He would pass by many delicate rhythms, but he would have detected every live stanza line in a volume and knew very well where to find an equal poetic charm in prose. He was so enamoured of the spiritUal beauty that he held all actual written poenls in very light esteem in the comparison. He admired Aeschylus and Pindar; but when some one was commending them, he said that Aeschylus and the Greeks, in describing Apollo and Orpheus, had given no song, or no good one . "They ought not to have moved trees, but to have chanted to the gods such a hymn as would have . sung all their old ideas out of their heads, and new ones in." His own verses are often rude and defective. The gold does not yet run pure, is drossy and crude. The thyme and marjoram are not yet honey. But if he want lyric fineness and technical merits, if he have not the poetic temperament, he never lacks the causal thought, showing that his genius was better than his talent. He knew the worth of the Imagination for the uplifting and consolation of human life, and liked to throw every thought into a symbol. The fact you tell is of no value, but only the impression. For this reason his presence was poetic, always piqued the curiosity to know more deeply the secrets of his mind . He had many reserves, an unwillingness to exhibit to profane eyes what was still sacred in his own, and knew well how to throw a poetic veil over his experience. All readers of Walden will remember his mythical record of his disappointments:"I long ago lost a hound, a bay horse and a turtle-dove, and

or

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THOREAU ,

am still on their trail. ]\f any are the travellers I have spoken concerning them, describing their tracks, and what calls they answered to. I have nlet one or two who have heard the hound t and the tramp of the horse, and even seen the dove disappear behind a cloud; ann they seelned as anxious to recover them as if they had lost them themselves." His riddles were worth the reading, and I confide that if at any time I do not understand the expression, it is yet just. Such was the wealth of his truth that it was not worth his while to use words in vain. His poem entitled "Sympathy" reveals the tenderness under that triple steel of stoicisnl, and the intellectual subtility it could animate. His classic pocnl on '~Smoke" suggests Sin1onides, hut is better than any poenl of Simonides. His biography is in his verses. His habitual thought makes all his poetry a hyn1n to the Cause of causes> the Spirit which vivifies and controls his own:"I hearing get, who had but ears, A.nd sight? who had but eyes before; I nl0ments live, who lived but years, And truth dis;cern, who knew but learning's lore."

And still more in these religious lines:"N ow chiefly is my natal hour, And only now n'ly prin1e of life; I will not doubt the love untold, Which not my worth nor want have bought, Which wooed nlC young, and WO()~ me old, And to this evening hath me br()tl~ht.H Whilst he used in his writings a certain petulance 0 f relnark in reference to churches or churchmen, he ,vas a person of a rare, tender and absolute religion, a person incapable of any profanation, by act or by thought. ()f courRC, the san1e is()la~ tion which belonged to his original thinking and living de . . tached him from the social religious forrns. This is neither to be censured nor regretted. Aristotle long ago explained it, when he said, "One who surpasses his fellow citizens in virtue is no

I,

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THOREAU

longer a part of the city. Their law is not for him, since he is a law to himself." Thoreau was sincerity itself, and might fortify the convictions of prophets in the ethical laws by his holy living. It was an affirmative experience which refused to be set aside. A truth. . speaker he, capable of the most deep and strict conversation; a physician to the wounds of any soul; a friend, knowing not only the secret of friendship, but almost worshipped by those few persons who resorted to him as their confessor and prophet, and knew the deep value of his mind and great heart. He thought that without religion or devotion of some kind nothing great was ever accomplished: and he thought that the bigoted ,sectarian bad better bear this in mind. His virtues, of course, sometimes ran into extremes. It was easy to trace to the inexorable demand on all for exact truth that austerity which made this willing hermit more solitary even than he wished. Himself of a perfect probity, he required not less of others. He had a disgust at crime, and no worldly success would cover it. He detected paltering as readily in digni.. fled and prosperous persons as in beggars, and with equal scorn. Such dangerous frankness was in his dealing that his admirers called hin1 "that terrible Thoreau," as if he spoke when silent, and was still present when be had departed. I think the severity of his ideal interfered to deprive him of a healthy sufficiency of human society. The habit of a realist to find things the reverse of their appearance inclined him to put every statement in a paradox. A certain habit of antagonism defaced his earlier writings-a trick of rhetoric not quite outgrown in his later, of substituting f()r the obvious word and thought its diametrical opposite. He praised wild mountains and winter forests for their domestic air, in snow and ice he would find sultriness, and commended the wilderness for resembling Rome and Paris. "It was so dry, that you might call it wet." The tendency to magnify the moment, to read all the laws of Nature in the one object or one combination under your eye, is of course comic to those who do not share the philosopher's

Tl-IOREAU

9 11

.,erception of identity. To hiIn there wa!5 no such thing as size& The pond was a small ocean; the Atlantic, a large Walden Pond. He referred every n1inutc fact to Cos111ical laws. Though he meant to be just, he ~eemed haunted by a certain chronic assumption that the science of the day pretended cOll1plcteness) and he had just found out that the savants had neglected to discriminate a part icular botanical variety, had failed to de .. scribe the seeds or count the sepals. "That is to say," we replied, "the blockheads were not born in Concord; but who said they were? It was their unspeakable misf()rtune to be born in London, or Paris, or Ronle; but, poor fellows, they did what they CQuld, considering that they never saw Bateulan's Pond, or Nine-Acre Corner, or Becky Stow's Swamp; besides, what were you sent into the world for, but to add this observation?" Had his genius been only contenlplative, he had been fitted to his life, but with his energy and practical ability he seemed born for great enterprise and for con1mand; and I so much regret the loss of his rare powers of action, that I cannot help counting it a fault in hinl that he had no ambition. Wanting this, instead of engineering for all America, he was the captain of a huckleberry-party. l)ounding beans is good to the end of pounding empires one of these days; but if, at the end of years, it is still only beans! But these foibles, real or apparent~ were fast vanishing in the incessant growth of a spirit so robust and wise, and which effaced its defeats with new triumpbs. His study of Nature was a perpetual ornament to him, and inspired his friends with curiosity to see the world through his eyes, and to hear his adventures. They possessed every kind of interest . He had many elegancies of his own, whilst he scoffed at con... ventional elegance. Thus, he could not bear to hear the sound of his own steps, the grit of gravel; and therefore never willingly walked in the road, but in the grass, on mountains and in woods. His senses were acute, and he remarked that by night every dwelling-house gives out bad air, like a slaughter-\house. He liked the pure fragrance of melilot. He honored certain plants

with special regard, and, over all, the pond-liIy-then, the

9 12

THOREAU

gentian, and the Mikania scandens, and "life..everlasting," and

a bass-tree which he visited every year when it bloomed, in thf middle of July. He thought the scent a more oracular inquisi- ' tioD than the sight-more oracular and trustworthy. The scent, of course, reveals what is concealed from the other senses. By it he detected earthiness. He delighted in echoes, and said they were almost the only kind of kindred voices that he heard. He loved Nature so well, was so happy in her solitude, that he became very jealous of cities and the sad work which their refinements and artifices made with man and his dwelling. The axe was always destroying his forest. ('Thank God," he said, "they cannot cut down the clouds I" "All kinds of figures are drawn on the blue ground with this fibrous white paint." I subjoin a few sentences taken from his unpublished manu.. scripts, not only as records of his thought and feeling, but for their power of description and literary excellence:"Some circumstantial evidence is very strong, as when you find a trout in the milk." "The chub is a soft fish, and tastes like boiled brown paper salted." "The youth gets together his materials to build a bridge to the mOOD, or, perchance, a palace or temple on the earth, and, at length the middle..aged man concludes to build a wood ..shed with them." "The locust z-ing."

((Devil's-needles zigzagging along the Nut-Meadow brook." "Sugar is not so sweet to the palate as sound to the healthy

ear." "I put on some hemlock-boughs, and the rich salt crackling of their leaves was like mustard to the ear, the crackling of uncountable regiments. Dead trees love the fire." "The bluebird carries the sky on his back . " "The tanager fl~es through the green foliage as if it would ignite the leaves." "If I wish for a horse ..hair for my compass-sight I must go to the stable; but the hair-bird, with her sharp eyes, goes to the road."

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THOREAU

"Immortal water, alive even to the superficies." "Fire is the n10st tolerable third party." "Nature made ferns for pure leaves, to show what she could

do in that line." "N0 tree has so fa.ir a bole and so handsome an instep

as the

beech." "How did these beautiful rainbow-tints get into the shell of the fresh-water clanl, buried in the mud at the bottom of our

dark river?" "Hard are the titnes when the infant's shoes are second.. foot." "We are strictly conflneci to our men to whom we give liberty." "Nothing is so much to be feared as fear_ Atheism may comparatively be popular with God himself." "Of what signin~ance the things you can forget? A little

thought is sexton to all the world." "How can we expect a harvest of thought who have not had a seed-time of character?" HOnly he can be trusted with gifts who can present a face of bronze to expectations." "I ask to be nlelted. You can only ask of the metals that they be tender to the fire that melts them . To nought else can they be tender . " There is a flower known to botanists, one of the same genus with our summer plant called "Life-Everlasting," a Gnaphalium ' like that, which grows on the most inaccessible cliffs of the Tyrolese mountains, where the chamois dare hardly venture, and wh,ch the hunter, tempted by its beauty, and by his love (for it is immensely valued by the Swiss maidens), climbs the cliffs to gather, and is son1etinles found dead at the foot, with the flower in his hand. It is called by botanists the Gnaphalium leontopodium, but by the Swiss Edclweisse, which signifies Noble Purity. Thoreau seemed to me living in the hope to gather this plant, which belonged to him of righL The scale on which hi$ studies proceeded was so large as to require longevity, and we were the less prepared for his sudden disappearance. The

country knows not yet, or in the least part, how great a son it has lost. It seen1S an injury that he should leave in the midst

THOREAU

his broken task which none else can finish, a kind of indignity to so noble a soul that he should depart out of Nature before yet he has been really shown to his peers for what he is. But he, at least, is content. His soul was nlade for the noblest society; he had in a short life exhausted the capabilities of this world; wherever there is knowledge, wherever there is virtue, wherever there is beauty, be will find a home.

ABRAHAM LINCOI . N [The nineteenth of April was tile a·n.nivcrsary of the battle oj Concord and Lcxi1z/?ton. In 1865, hOWeVlJr, it was the day when funeral services were held in Concord for the martyred 1)residcnt . Emerson was one oj the speakers in the old 1neeting house that day,. In 1862 Emerson Itad been taken to the White House to meet Lincoln wit/) recalll~d having attended one oj Enzerson's lecture5 . ] ,

"Nature, they say, doth dote, And cannot ma.ke a nlun Save on some worn-out plan, Repeating U5 by rotc:

For him ber Old-World moulds aside she threw, And, choosin~ sweet clay from the breast Of the uncxhaustcd Wcst, With stuff untainted shaped a hero new, Wise, 'steadfast in the strength of God, anel true" How beautiful 1.0 sec Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed, Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead; One whose meek flock the people joyed to be, Not lured by any cheat of birth, But by his clear ... grained human worth, And brave old wisdom of sincerity! They k:rew that outward grace is dust; They could not choose but trust In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill. And supple . .tempered will That bent, like perfect steel, to spring again and thrust •

Nothing of Europe here, Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still, Ere any names of Serf and Peer Could Nature's equal scheme deface; ... Here was a type of the true elder race, And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face." LOWELL, Co11~me1noration Ode.

ABRAIIAM IJINCOLN WE MEET under the glOOlll of a calulllity which clarkens down over the nlinds of g()od lllcn in all civil soc.iety, 4tH the fearful tidings travel ovc:r sea, over land, frOIl1 country to country, like the shadow of an uncalculatecl t\ClipHC over the planet ()ld .as history is, and Inanifold as arc its tragcdit's! 1 doubt if any death has caused so much pain to n1ankind ns t.hiH ha~ caused, or will cause, on its announcen1cnt; and this, not so nluch b(~c.;,ul~e nations are by 1l1oc1crn arts brought HO cl()sl~ly t()gcth(~r, as because of the mysterious hopes and fears which, in the present day, are connected with the nunlC and inHt,itutiol'ls of Anl(~ri(~a. In this country, on Saturday, everyone was struck dumb, and saw at first ol1ly deep below d(~ep, as he Ineditat(~d on the ghastly blow. And perhaps, at this hour, when the coffin which contains the dust of the I)re~idcnt ~cts forward on its long nlarch through 1110urnillg stat('s, on its way t() his home in Illinois, we 111ight ,\vel1 he sil~nt, and ~uff("r tht~ awful voices of the tinle to thunder to us. Yes, hut that first dC5pair was brief: the man was not so to be nlourn()d. He was the nlost active and hoper ul of nlcn; alld his work had not perished: but acclamations of praise for the task he had accomplished burst out into a song of triumph, which even tears for his death cannot keep down. The President stood before us as a nlan of the people . fIc was thoroughly A111Crican, had never c1"oEl~cd the ~ea, had never been spoiled by l~nglish in!-;ularity or I~'rench dissipation; a quite native, aboriginal nlun, as an acorn ironl the oak; no aping of foreigners, 110 frivolous accolnplishments, Kentuckian born, working all a farnl, a fiatboatn1an, a captain in the J~lack Hawk War, a country lawyer, a representative in the rural legislature of Illinois-on such modest foundations the broad structure of his fame was laid. Row slowly, and yet by bappily gi'

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ABRAHAM LINCOLN

prepared steps, he came to his place. All of us rcmemberit !s only a history of five or six years-the surprise and the disappointment of the country at his first nomination by the convention at Chicago. Mr. Seward, then in the culmination of his good fame, was the favorite of the Eastern States. And when the new and comparatively unknown name of Lincoln was announced (notwithstanding the report of the acclamations of that convention), we heard the result coldly and sadly. It seemed too rash, on a purely local reputation, to build so grave a trust in such anxious times; and men naturally talked of the chances in politics as incalculable. But it turned out not to be chance. The profound good opinion which the people of Illinois and of the West had conceived of hinl, and which they bad imparted to their colleagues, that they also might justify themselves to their constituents at home, was not rash, though they did not begin to know the riches of his worth. A plain man of the people, an extraordinary fortune at.. tended him. He offered no shining qualities at the first encounter; he did not offend by superiority. He had a face and manner which disarmed suspicion, which inspired confidence, which confirmed good will. He was a man without vices. He had a strong sense of duty, which it was very easy for him to obey. Then, he had what farmers call a long head; was excellent in working out the sum for himself; in arguin,g his case and convincing you fairly and firmly . Then, it turned out that he was a great worker; had prodigious faculty of performance; worked easily. A good worker is so rare; everybody has some disabling quality. In a host of young men that start together and promise so many brilliant leaders for the next age, each fails on trial; one by bad health, one by conceit, or by love of pleasure, or lethargy, or an ugly . temper-each has some disqualifying fault that throws him out of the career. But this man was sound to the core, cheerful, persistent, all right for labor, and liked nothing so well. Then, he had a vast good nature, which made him tolerant and accessible to all; fair-minded, leaning to the claim of the petitioner; affable, and not sensible to the affliction which the innumerable visits paid to him when President would have brought

A BRA li A.1\1:

LIN COL N

to anyone else. And how this good nature ht. t"anH~ a lluhlt~ humanity, in nUlny a tra~ic case which the C~V(~llts of th{~ war brought to hun, everyone will rCll)('!lnb(Ar; and \vith what inw creasing tenderness he dealt when a whole rac(~ \\ras thro\vn on his compassion. 'fhe poor negro ~ai

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