History

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

There is one mind shared by all people. Each person has access to that same mind and all that it contains. Anyone who gains the power to reason becomes free to share in the whole estate of the mind. What Plato has thought, that person may think. What a saint has felt, that person may feel. Whatever has ever happened to anyone, that person can understand. Whoever has access to this universal mind shares in all that is done or can be done. For the universal mind is the only agent, and it has supreme power.

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

History is the record of what this mind has done. Its genius is revealed throughout the whole course of time. Nothing less than all of human history can explain a person. Without hurry or rest, the human spirit has moved forward from the beginning. It gives form to every faculty, thought, and emotion that belongs to it through fitting events. But thought always comes before fact. All the facts of history exist beforehand in the mind as laws. Circumstances make each law dominant in turn. The limits of nature allow only one law to prevail at a time. A person contains the whole encyclopedia of facts. A single acorn holds the creation of a thousand forests. In the same way, Egypt, Greece, Rome, Gaul, Britain, and America were already folded within the first man. Age after age, camps, kingdoms, empires, republics, and democracies arise from the human spirit in all its variety, meeting the world in all its variety.

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

The human mind wrote history, and the human mind must read it. The Sphinx must solve her own riddle. If all of history is contained in one person, then individual experience must explain it all. The hours of our lives are connected to the centuries of time. The air I breathe comes from nature’s vast reserves. The light on my book comes from a star a hundred million miles away. My body’s balance depends on the equilibrium of centrifugal and centripetal forces. In the same way, the hours should be taught by the ages, and the ages explained by the hours. Each person is another incarnation of the universal mind. Every quality of the universal mind is present in each person. Each new fact in a person’s private experience sheds light on what large groups of people have done. The crises of a person’s life also relate to national crises. Every revolution began as a thought in one person’s mind. When that same thought occurs to another person, it is the key to that era. Every reform was once a private opinion. When it becomes a private opinion again, it will solve the problem of its age. A fact told to me must correspond to something in me to be believable or understandable. As we read, we must become Greeks, Romans, Turks, priests and kings, martyrs and executioners. We must connect these images to some reality in our private experience, or we will learn nothing properly. What happened to Asdrubal or Cæsar Borgia illustrates the mind’s powers and its capacity for corruption, just as what has happened to us does. Every new law and political movement has meaning for you. Stand before each record of these events and say, ‘Under this mask my Proteus nature hid itself.’ This corrects the problem of being too close to ourselves. It puts our actions in perspective. Crabs, goats, scorpions, the balance and the waterpot lose their lowly appearance when they are placed among the signs of the zodiac. In the same way, I can see my own vices without anger in the distant figures of Solomon, Alcibiades, and Catiline.

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

Universal nature gives value to individual people and things. Because human life contains universal nature, it is mysterious and inviolable. We protect it with penalties and laws. All laws ultimately draw their reason from this source. All express, more or less clearly, some command of this supreme, boundless essence. Property, too, belongs to the soul and encompasses great spiritual truths. At first, we instinctively defend it with swords, laws, and vast, complex alliances. Our dim awareness of this truth lights all our days. It is the claim behind all other claims. It is the plea for education, justice, and charity. It is the foundation of friendship and love, and of the heroism and grandeur that belong to acts of self-reliance. It is remarkable that, without meaning to, we always read as if we were superior beings. Even the grandest scenes in universal history, poetry, and romance never lose our attention. Whether they depict priestly or imperial palaces, or triumphs of will or genius, they never make us feel like intruders. They never make us feel that such things are meant for better people. Instead, we feel most at home in their grandest moments. The young boy reading in the corner feels that everything Shakspeare says about the king is true of himself. We share in the great moments of history, in people's great discoveries, great acts of resistance, and great successes. We share in them because the law was made, the sea explored, the land discovered, or the blow struck for us. In their place, we would have done or applauded the same.

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

We have the same interest in our circumstances and our character. We honor the rich because their outward lives show freedom, power, and grace. We feel these qualities belong to human beings, and to us. So everything a Stoic, Eastern, or modern essayist says about the wise person describes each reader’s own ideal. It describes the self each reader has not yet become, but can become. All literature describes the character of the wise person. Books, monuments, pictures, and conversations are portraits in which he finds the features he is developing in himself. Both the silent and the eloquent praise him and speak to him. Wherever he goes, he is inspired, as if people were referring to him personally. A true seeker, therefore, never needs to look for personal praise in what others say. He hears something sweeter than praise of himself. He hears praise of the character he seeks in every word said about character. He hears it even in every fact and circumstance, in the running river and the rustling corn. Silent nature, the mountains, and the lights of the sky offer looks of praise, expressions of respect, and a flow of love.

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

Let us use these hints in broad daylight, though they seem to come from sleep and night. Students should read history actively, not passively. They should regard their own lives as the text and books as the commentary. When pressed in this way, the Muse of history will speak prophecies as she never will to those who lack self-respect. I do not expect anyone to read history rightly if they think that famous men’s deeds in a distant age have deeper meaning than what they are doing today.

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

The world exists for the education of each person. Every age, every state of society, and every way of acting in history has a counterpart in his life. In a wonderful way, everything tends to condense itself and offer him its own virtue. He should see that he can live all of history in his own life. He must stand firmly at home and refuse to be intimidated by kings or empires. He must know that he is greater than all the geography and all the governments of the world. He must change the usual perspective from which history is read, shifting it from Rome and Athens and London to himself. He must not deny his conviction that he is the court. If England or Egypt has anything to say to him, he will hear the case. If not, let them be silent forever. He must reach and hold that lofty view where facts reveal their hidden meaning, and poetry and historical records are alike. The mind’s instinct and nature’s purpose reveal themselves in how we use the great stories of history. Time dissolves the hard edges of facts into shining air. No anchor, cable, or fence can keep a fact a fact. Babylon, Troy, Tyre, Palestine, and even early Rome are already becoming fiction. From then on, the Garden of Eden and the sun standing still in Gibeon are poetry to all nations. Who cares what the fact was, once we have made it into a constellation in heaven, an immortal sign? London and Paris and New York must go the same way. “What is history,” said Napoleon, “but a fable agreed upon?” Our lives are surrounded by Egypt, Greece, Gaul, England, War, Colonization, Church, Court and Commerce. They are like flowers and wild ornaments, some solemn and some gay. I will not attach more importance to them than that. I believe in Eternity. I can find Greece, Asia, Italy, Spain and the Islands in my own mind. I can find there the genius and creative principle of each place and of all eras.

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

We constantly encounter the most striking facts of history in our own experience and confirm them for ourselves. All history becomes subjective. In other words, properly speaking, there is no history, only biography. Every mind must learn the whole lesson for itself and cover all the ground. What a mind does not see or live through, it will not know. An earlier age may have summed up its experience in a formula or rule for practical convenience. But the rule forms a wall that prevents the mind from gaining the benefit of confirming that experience for itself. Somewhere, sometime, the mind will demand and find compensation for that loss by doing the work itself. Ferguson discovered many things in astronomy that had long been known. All the better for him.

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

History must do this, or it is nothing. Every law the state passes reveals a fact about human nature. That is all. We must find within ourselves the reason each fact was inevitable, and see how it could and had to happen. We should approach every public and private act in this way. We should do so before a speech by Burke, a victory by Napoleon, or the martyrdom of Sir Thomas More, Sidney, or Marmaduke Robinson. We should do so before the French Reign of Terror and the hanging of witches in Salem. We should do so before a fanatical religious Revival and the practice of Animal Magnetism in Paris or Providence. We assume that under the same influences, we would be affected in the same way and do the same things. We aim to understand each step in our minds and reach the same height or the same degradation as our fellow human being, who has acted in our place.

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

All inquiry into antiquity expresses a desire to replace the wild, savage, and absurd There or Then with the Here and Now. So does all curiosity about the Pyramids, the excavated cities, Stonehenge, the Ohio Circles, Mexico, and Memphis. Belzoni digs and measures in the mummy pits and pyramids of Thebes. He continues until he can see beyond the difference between himself and the enormous work. He satisfies himself, both generally and in detail, that someone like him made it. Its maker had the same means and motives, and worked toward ends that Belzoni himself would have pursued. Then the problem is solved. His thought moves with satisfaction along the whole line of temples, sphinxes, and catacombs, passing through them all. They come alive again in his mind, or exist now.

A Gothic cathedral affirms that it was done by us and not done by us. Surely it was by man, but we find it not in our man. But we apply ourselves to the history of its production. We put ourselves into the place and state of the builder. We remember the forest-dwellers, the first temples, the adherence to the first type, and the decoration of it as the wealth of the nation increased; the value which is given to wood by carving led to the carving over the whole mountain of stone of a cathedral. When we have gone through this process, and added thereto the Catholic Church, its cross, its music, its processions, its Saints’ days and image-worship, we have as it were been the man that made the minster; we have seen how it could and must be. We have the sufficient reason.

A Gothic cathedral tells us that we both did and did not make it. Surely human beings built it, but we do not recognize such ability in ourselves. So we study how the cathedral was made. We imagine ourselves in the builder’s place and circumstances. We remember the forest dwellers, the first temples, and the way people kept to the original design. As the nation grew wealthier, people decorated that design. Carving gave value to wood, and this led people to carve the whole mountain of stone that makes up a cathedral. We then add the Catholic Church, its cross, its music, its processions, its saints’ days, and its worship of images. Having done all this, we have, as it were, become the person who built the cathedral. We have seen how it could and had to come into being. We have an adequate explanation.

The difference between men is in their principle of association. Some men classify objects by color and size and other accidents of appearance; others by intrinsic likeness, or by the relation of cause and effect. The progress of the intellect is to the clearer vision of causes, which neglects surface differences. To the poet, to the philosopher, to the saint, all things are friendly and sacred, all events profitable, all days holy, all men divine. For the eye is fastened on the life, and slights the circumstance. Every chemical substance, every plant, every animal in its growth, teaches the unity of cause, the variety of appearance.

People differ in how they connect ideas. Some group things by color, size, and other outward features. Others group them by their inner likeness or by cause and effect. As the mind develops, it sees causes more clearly and looks past surface differences. To the poet, the philosopher, and the saint, all things are friendly and sacred. All events are beneficial, all days are holy, and all people are divine. This is because they focus on the life within and pay little attention to outward circumstances. Every chemical substance, every plant, and every animal as it grows teaches us that causes are unified, though appearances vary.

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

We are lifted up and surrounded by this all-creating nature, which is as soft and fluid as a cloud or the air. Why, then, should we be such rigid pedants and place such importance on a few forms? Why should we concern ourselves with time, size, or shape? The soul knows nothing of them. Genius follows the soul’s law and plays with them as a young child plays with old men and in churches. Genius studies the thought that causes things. Far back in the womb of things, it sees rays separating from one sphere. Before they fall, the rays spread apart across infinite distances. Genius watches the monad through all its masks as it passes through the changing forms of nature. Genius sees the same individual in the fly, the caterpillar, the grub, and the egg. Through countless individuals, it sees the fixed species. Through many species, it sees the genus. Through all genera, it sees the steadfast type. Through all the kingdoms of organized life, it sees eternal unity. Nature is a changing cloud that is always and never the same. She gives the same thought countless forms, just as a poet makes twenty fables with one moral. Despite matter’s brute force and toughness, a subtle spirit bends all things to its will. Even the hardest substance flows into a soft but precise form before this spirit. As I look at the form, its outline and texture change again. Nothing is as fleeting as form, yet form never quite loses its identity. In man we can still trace remains or hints of everything we consider marks of servitude in the lower races. Yet in man, these marks add to his nobility and grace. In Æschylus, Io offends the imagination when she is transformed into a cow. But how different she is when, as Isis in Egypt, she meets Osiris-Jove! She is a beautiful woman, with nothing left of her transformation but the moon-shaped horns that splendidly adorn her brows.

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

The underlying unity of history is just as real as its obvious diversity. On the surface, there is an infinite variety of things. At the center, the cause is simple. How many actions of one person reveal the same character! Consider the sources of our knowledge of Greek genius. We have the civil history of the Greeks, as told by Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon, and Plutarch. It gives us a more than adequate account of what kind of people they were and what they did. We find the same national mind expressed again in their literature, in epic and lyric poems, drama, and philosophy. These give us a very complete picture. Then we find it once more in their architecture, with a beauty like restraint itself. It is limited to the straight line and the square, a geometry in built form. We find it again in sculpture, the “tongue on the balance of expression.” Its many figures move with the utmost freedom, yet never break the ideal of serenity. They are like worshippers performing a religious dance before the gods. Even in convulsive pain or mortal combat, they never dare break the pattern and decorum of their dance. So we have four representations of the genius of one remarkable people. Yet what could seem more different to the senses than an ode by Pindar, a marble centaur, the peristyle of the Parthenon, and the final acts of Phocion?

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

Everyone must have noticed faces and figures that make a similar impression, even though their features do not resemble one another. A particular picture or poem may not bring the same images to mind as a walk through wild mountains. Yet it may still stir the same feeling. The resemblance is not obvious to the senses, but hidden and beyond the reach of understanding. Nature endlessly combines and repeats a very few laws. She hums the same familiar tune in countless variations.

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

All of nature’s works share a magnificent family resemblance. Nature delights in startling us with similarities in the most unexpected places. I have seen the head of an old forest sachem that immediately reminded me of a bare mountain peak. The furrows in his brow suggested layers of rock. Some men have manners with the same essential splendor as the simple, awe-inspiring sculptures on the Parthenon’s friezes and the surviving works of the earliest Greek art. And writings in the same spirit can be found in books from every age. What is Guido’s Rospigliosi Aurora but a morning thought, just as its horses are only a morning cloud? If anyone takes the trouble to notice the variety of actions that equally appeal to him in certain moods, and those he dislikes, he will see how deep the chain of affinity runs.

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

A painter told me that no one can draw a tree without somehow becoming a tree. Nor can a painter draw a child simply by studying the outline of the child’s form. But by watching the child move and play for a while, the painter enters into the child’s nature. Then the painter can draw the child at will in any pose. In the same way, Roos “entered into the inmost nature of a sheep.” I knew a draftsman working on a public survey who could not sketch the rocks until their geological structure was explained to him. Very different works can come from the same state of thought. What they share is the spirit, not the facts. An artist gains the power to awaken a particular activity in other souls through deeper understanding. This power comes not primarily from painstakingly acquiring many manual skills.

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

It has been said that “ordinary souls pay with what they do, nobler souls with what they are.” Why? Because a person with a profound nature awakens power and beauty in us through their actions, words, looks, and manners. A gallery of sculptures or paintings appeals to that same power and beauty in us.

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

Civil and natural history, and the history of art and literature, must be explained through individual lives. Otherwise, they remain mere words. Everything is connected to us, and everything interests us, whether a kingdom, college, tree, horse, or iron shoe. The roots of all things lie in humanity. Santa Croce and the dome of St. Peter’s are imperfect copies of a divine model. Strasburg Cathedral is a physical counterpart of Erwin of Steinbach’s soul. The true poem is the poet’s mind. The true ship is the shipbuilder. If we could look inside a man, we would see the reason for every last flourish and tendril in his work. In the same way, every spine and color in a seashell already exists in the organs that form it. All of heraldry and chivalry is contained in courtesy. A man with fine manners will say your name with all the distinction that titles of nobility could ever give it.

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

The ordinary events of every day always confirm some old prediction for us. They turn into real things the words and signs we had heard and seen without noticing. A lady I was riding with in the forest told me that the woods always seemed to her to be waiting. It was as if the spirits who lived there stopped their activities until the traveler had passed by. Poetry has celebrated this idea in the dance of the fairies, which stops when human footsteps approach. Anyone who has seen the rising moon break through the clouds at midnight has witnessed the creation of light and the world, like an archangel. I remember a summer day in the fields when my companion pointed out a broad cloud. It may have stretched a quarter of a mile parallel to the horizon. It had exactly the shape of a cherub as painted over churches: a round mass in the center, easily imagined with eyes and a mouth, supported on either side by wide, symmetrical wings. What appears once in the sky may appear often. The cloud was undoubtedly the original model for that familiar ornament. I have seen a chain of summer lightning in the sky that showed me at once that the Greeks drew from nature when they painted the thunderbolt in Jove’s hand. I have seen a snowdrift along the side of a stone wall that obviously inspired the common architectural scroll used to support a tower.

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

By imagining ourselves in the original circumstances, we can reinvent architectural styles and decorations. We can see how each people simply decorated its earliest homes. The Doric temple still resembles the wooden cabin where the Dorian lived. The Chinese pagoda is plainly a Tartar tent. The Indian and Egyptian temples still show traces of their ancestors’ mounds and underground houses. “The custom of making houses and tombs in living rock,” says Heeren in his Researches on the Ethiopians, “naturally gave Nubian Egyptian architecture its massive scale. In these caverns, already prepared by nature, people grew accustomed to seeing huge shapes and masses. So when art came to nature’s aid, it could not work on a small scale without lowering itself. What place would ordinary statues or neat porches and wings have had beside those gigantic halls? Only Colossi could sit as watchmen before the halls or lean against the pillars inside.”

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

The Gothic church clearly began as a rough adaptation of forest trees and all their branches into an arcade for festive or solemn occasions. The bands around the clustered pillars still suggest the green twigs that tied the trees together. Anyone walking along a road cut through pine woods will be struck by how much the grove looks like a building. This is especially true in winter, when all the other trees are bare and reveal the low Saxon arch. On a winter afternoon in the woods, one can just as easily see the origin of the stained glass windows that adorn Gothic cathedrals. Their origin lies in the colors of the western sky seen through the forest’s bare, crossing branches. No lover of nature can enter the old buildings of Oxford or the English cathedrals without feeling that the forest overwhelmed the builder’s mind. His chisel, saw, and plane kept reproducing its ferns, its spikes of flowers, and its locust, elm, oak, pine, fir, and spruce trees.

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

A Gothic cathedral is stone blossoming under the control of humanity’s endless desire for harmony. A mountain of granite blooms into an eternal flower. It has the lightness and delicate detail of a plant, as well as its airy proportions and sense of depth.

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

In the same way, all public facts should be seen in individual terms, and all private facts in general terms. Then history becomes fluid and true, and biography becomes deep and sublime. Persian builders modeled the slender columns and capitals of their buildings on the stems and flowers of lotuses and palms. Similarly, even at the height of its splendor, the Persian court never abandoned the nomadic ways of its barbarous tribes. It traveled from Ecbatana, where it spent the spring, to Susa for the summer and Babylon for the winter.

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

In the early history of Asia and Africa, nomadic life and agriculture were opposing forces. The geography of both continents made a nomadic life necessary. But nomads terrified everyone who had built towns, drawn there by the soil or the advantages of a market. So agriculture became a religious duty, because nomadic life threatened the state. Even now, in civilized countries like England and America, these tendencies still fight the old battle, both within nations and within individuals. African nomads were forced to wander by the attacks of the gadfly, which drives cattle mad. During the rainy season, the fly forces the tribe to migrate and drive its cattle to higher, sandy regions. Asian nomads follow the pastures from month to month. In America and Europe, trade and curiosity drive people to wander. This is certainly progress, from the gadfly of Astaboras to Boston Bay's mania for England and Italy. In the past, wanderers were held in check by sacred cities, where they were required to make regular religious pilgrimages. Strict laws and customs that strengthened national ties also held them in check. Today, the accumulating benefits of a long residence restrain people from wandering. These opposing tendencies are no less active in individuals, depending on whether love of adventure or love of rest prevails. A man with robust health and high spirits can quickly make himself at home. He lives in his wagon and roams through every latitude as easily as a Calmuc. At sea, in the forest, or in the snow, he sleeps as warmly, eats with as good an appetite, and enjoys company as much as he does by his own hearth. Or perhaps his adaptability has a deeper source. His powers of observation may have a wider range, giving him something of interest wherever he sees new things. The pastoral nations were so needy and hungry that they were desperate. In the same way, too much intellectual wandering bankrupts the mind, scattering its powers among a jumble of subjects. The home keeping mind, on the other hand, has the self restraint or contentment to find all the elements of life in its own soil. But it faces its own dangers of monotony and decline if it is not stimulated by influences from outside.

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

Everything a person sees outside themselves corresponds to their states of mind. As their thinking advances, they come to understand each thing by grasping the truth to which that fact or series of facts belongs.

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

The Germans call the ancient world the Fore-World. I can dive into it within myself, just as I can search for it with my fingers. I can search in catacombs, libraries, and the broken reliefs and torsos of ruined villas.

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

What lies behind the interest all men feel in Greek history, literature, art, and poetry? This interest covers every period, from the Heroic or Homeric age to the domestic life of the Athenians and Spartans four or five centuries later. The reason is that every man personally passes through a Greek period. The Greek state is the age of the body and the perfection of the senses. It is also the age when the spiritual nature develops in complete unity with the body. In that age there were human forms that gave sculptors their models for Hercules, Phœbus, and Jove. These were unlike the forms that fill the streets of modern cities, where the face is a confused blur of features. Their features were unspoiled, sharply defined, and symmetrical. Their eye sockets were shaped so that their eyes could not squint or glance furtively from side to side. They had to turn the whole head. The manners of that period are plain and fierce. People respect personal qualities: courage, skill, self-control, justice, strength, speed, a loud voice, and a broad chest. Luxury and elegance are unknown. A sparse population and lack of resources make every man his own valet, cook, butcher, and soldier. The habit of meeting his own needs trains his body to perform wonders. Such are Homer's Agamemnon and Diomed. Xenophon's account of himself and his compatriots in the Retreat of the Ten Thousand is not very different. “After the army had crossed the river Teleboas in Armenia, much snow fell. The troops lay miserably on the ground, covered with snow. But Xenophon got up naked, took an axe, and began splitting wood. Then others got up and did the same.” Throughout Xenophon's army, there is unlimited freedom of speech. The soldiers quarrel over plunder and argue with the generals about every new order. Xenophon is as sharp-tongued as any of them and sharper than most, so he gives as good as he gets. Who can fail to see that these are a gang of big boys? They have the kind of honor code and loose discipline that big boys have.

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

The precious charm of ancient tragedy, and indeed of all old literature, is that its characters speak simply. They speak like people with great good sense who do not know they possess it. They speak before reflection has become their mind’s dominant habit. Our admiration for ancient literature is not admiration for what is old, but for what is natural. The Greeks are not reflective. Instead, their senses and health are perfect, and they have the finest physical constitution in the world. Adults acted with the simplicity and grace of children. They made vases, tragedies, and statues as healthy senses should make them, that is, in good taste. Such things have continued to be made in every age. They are still made wherever people have healthy bodies. But the Greeks, as a group, have surpassed everyone because of their superior physical constitution. They combine the energy of adulthood with the appealing self-forgetfulness of childhood. These ways are attractive because they belong to human nature. Everyone knows them from having once been a child. And there are always people who retain these qualities. A person with childlike genius and natural energy is still a Greek and renews our love for the Muse of Hellas. I admire the love of nature in Philoctetes. When I read those beautiful addresses to sleep, the stars, rocks, mountains, and waves, I feel time receding like the sea. I feel the eternity of humanity and the sameness of human thought. It seems that the Greek had the same companions in the world as I do. The sun and moon, water and fire, touched his heart just as they touch mine. Then the much praised distinction between Greek and English, between the Classic and Romantic schools, seems superficial and pedantic. When a thought of Plato becomes my own, or a truth that stirred Pindar’s soul stirs mine, time disappears. I feel that we two share a perception. Our souls take on the same color and seem to merge into one. Then why should I measure degrees of latitude or count Egyptian years?

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

The student understands the age of chivalry through his own experience of chivalry. He understands the days of sea voyages and journeys around the world through similar experiences of his own, on a smaller scale. He has the same key to the sacred history of the world. A prophet’s voice may reach him from the depths of ancient times, echoing a feeling from his childhood or a prayer from his youth. When it does, he sees the truth through all the confusion of tradition and the distortions of institutions.

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

From time to time, rare and extraordinary spirits come among us and reveal new facts about nature. I see that men of God have walked among us throughout history. They have made even the most ordinary listener feel their divine calling in heart and soul. This clearly explains the tripod, the priest, and the priestess inspired by divine breath.

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

Jesus astonishes and overwhelms people who live for physical pleasures. They cannot fit him into history or reconcile him with their own lives. As they come to respect their intuitions and aspire to live holy lives, their own devotion explains every fact and every word.

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

How easily the old faiths of Moses, Zoroaster, Menu, and Socrates make themselves at home in my mind. They do not seem ancient to me. They belong to me as much as they belonged to those men.

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

I have seen the first monks and hermits without crossing oceans or traveling through centuries. More than once, I have met someone who neglected work and was absorbed in commanding contemplation. These proud recipients of charity begged in God’s name. They brought Simeon the Stylite, the Thebais, and the first Capuchins to life in the nineteenth century.

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

The priestcraft of East and West, of the Magian, Brahmin, Druid, and Inca, can be understood through an individual’s private life. We know how a rigid formalist can stifle a young child, crushing his spirit and courage and paralyzing his understanding. Yet the child feels no indignation, only fear and obedience, and even much sympathy with the tyranny. Only when he becomes a man can he understand why. He sees that his childhood oppressor is himself a child, tyrannized by names, words, and forms. The oppressor merely passed their influence on to the young child. This experience teaches him how Belus was worshipped and how the Pyramids were built. It teaches him better than Champollion’s discovery of every workman’s name and the cost of every tile. He finds Assyria and the Mounds of Cholula at his own door, and he himself has laid their courses of stone.

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

Again, when a thoughtful person protests the superstitions of their time, they retrace the steps of earlier reformers. Like those reformers, they find new dangers to virtue in the search for truth. They learn once more how much moral strength is needed to replace the restraint imposed by superstition. Great moral laxity follows close behind a reformation. How often in world history has the Luther of the day had to lament the decline of piety in his own household! One day, Martin Luther’s wife said to him, “Doctor, why did we pray so often and so fervently under papal rule, while now we pray so coldly and so seldom?”

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

As a person grows, he discovers how deeply all literature belongs to him, both stories and history. He finds that the poet was not an odd fellow describing strange and impossible situations. Rather, universal humanity wrote through the poet a confession true for one and true for all. He finds his own secret life story in lines written before he was born, lines he understands remarkably well. In his private experiences, he encounters the stories of Æsop, Homer, Hafiz, Ariosto, Chaucer, and Scott, one after another. He confirms their truth through his own thoughts and actions.

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

The beautiful Greek fables are true for everyone because they are creations of the imagination, not merely of fancy. What a range of meanings the story of Prometheus has, and how constantly relevant it remains! Its primary value is as the first chapter in the history of Europe. Its mythology barely conceals real events: the invention of mechanical arts and the migration of colonies. But the story also tells the history of religion, coming somewhat close to the faith of later ages. Prometheus is the Jesus of the old mythology. He is the friend of humanity. He stands between the unjust “justice” of the Eternal Father and the human race, and willingly suffers everything for their sake. But the story departs from Calvinistic Christianity when it shows him defying Jove. In doing so, it represents a state of mind that readily appears wherever theism is taught in a crude, literal form. This state of mind seems to be humanity’s defense against that false teaching. It takes the form of discontent with the supposed fact that a God exists, and a feeling that the duty to revere him is a burden. If it could, it would steal the Creator’s fire and live apart from him, independent of him. The Prometheus Vinctus is the romance of skepticism. The details of that majestic fable are just as true in every age. The poets said that Apollo tended the flocks of Admetus. When gods come among people, they go unrecognized. Jesus was not recognized, nor were Socrates and Shakspeare. Hercules suffocated Antaeus in his grip, but whenever Antaeus touched his mother earth, his strength returned. Man is the broken giant. In all his weakness, both his body and mind are strengthened by regular communion with nature. Music and poetry can make solid nature seem fluid and give it wings. This power explains the riddle of Orpheus. A philosophical awareness of identity persisting through endless changes of form helps us understand Proteus. What else am I, who laughed or wept yesterday, slept like a corpse last night, and stood and ran this morning? And what do I see all around me but the transformations of Proteus? I can express my thought through the name of any creature or fact, because every creature is man acting or being acted upon. Tantalus is simply a name for you and me. Tantalus means the impossibility of drinking the waters of thought that always shimmer and ripple within sight of the soul. The migration of souls from one form to another is no fable. I wish it were, but men and women are only half human. Every animal of the barnyard, the field and the forest, the earth and the waters under the earth, has managed to gain a foothold. Each has left the imprint of its features and form on one or another of these upright, heaven-facing beings who can speak. Ah, brother, stop your soul from ebbing away, sinking into the forms whose habits you have slipped into over many years. The old fable of the Sphinx is just as close and relevant to us. She was said to sit by the road and ask every passerby a riddle. If a man could not answer, she swallowed him alive. If he solved the riddle, the Sphinx was killed. What is our life but an endless flight of winged facts or events? These changes come in splendid variety, each putting questions to the human spirit. Those who cannot answer these facts or questions of their time with a higher wisdom become their servants. Facts burden and rule them. Facts turn them into people of routine, people of sense. In such people, literal obedience to facts has put out every spark of the light that makes a person truly human. But a person may remain true to better instincts or feelings and refuse to be ruled by facts, like one who comes from a higher race. If he stays faithful to the soul and sees the underlying principle, then the facts fall readily and gracefully into place. They know their master, and even the humblest of them glorifies him.

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

In Goethe’s Helena, we see the same desire for every word to be a thing. These figures, he would say, these Chirons, Griffins, Phorkyas, Helen and Leda, are something. They each exert a particular influence on the mind. To that extent, they are eternal beings, as real today as they were in the first Olympiad. After turning them over in his mind, he freely expresses his own mood and gives them form in his imagination. And although the poem is as vague and fantastic as a dream, it is much more attractive than his more conventional dramatic works. It wonderfully frees the mind from its routine of familiar images. Its wildly free design and its constant succession of quick surprises stir the reader’s imagination and fancy.

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

Universal nature is too strong for the poet’s individual nature. It bears down on the poet and writes through the poet’s hand. So even when the poet seems to express a whim or tell a wild tale, the result is an exact allegory. That is why Plato said that “poets utter great and wise things which they do not themselves understand.” All the stories of the Middle Ages reveal themselves as disguised or playful expressions of the serious aims of the age. Magic and everything attributed to it are a profound anticipation of the powers of science. The shoes of swiftness, the sword of sharpness, and the power to control the elements all show the mind reaching toward the truth. So do the powers to use the hidden properties of minerals and understand the voices of birds. The hero’s supernatural strength, the gift of everlasting youth, and similar powers are also efforts of the human spirit “to bend the shows of things to the desires of the mind.”

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

In Perceforest and Amadis de Gaul, a garland and a rose bloom on the head of a faithful woman. They fade on the brow of an unfaithful woman. In the story of the Boy and the Mantle, even a grown reader may be surprised by a glow of righteous pleasure when the gentle Venelas triumphs. Indeed, I find all the rules of fairy tales true in Concord, whatever may be true in Cornwall or Bretagne. Fairies do not like to be named. Their gifts are unpredictable and cannot be trusted. Anyone seeking treasure must not speak. And so on.

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

Is it any different in the newest romance? I read the Bride of Lammermoor. Sir William Ashton is a mask for a common temptation. Ravenswood Castle is a fine name for proud poverty. The foreign mission of state is only honest industry in a Bunyan-like disguise. We can all shoot a wild bull that would gore the good and beautiful. We do so by fighting down what is unjust and sensual. Lucy Ashton is another name for fidelity, which is always beautiful and always vulnerable to disaster in this world.

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

But alongside the civil and philosophical history of humanity, another history unfolds every day: the history of the external world. Humanity is just as deeply involved in this history. A person is a summary of time and a counterpart to nature. Human power lies in our many affinities, in the way our lives are intertwined with all organic and inorganic existence. In ancient Rome, public roads began at the Forum and ran north, south, east, and west to every provincial center. They gave the capital’s soldiers access to every market town in Persia, Spain, and Britain. In the same way, highways seem to run from the human heart to the heart of every object in nature. They bring each object under human control. A person is a bundle of relationships, a knot of roots whose flowers and fruit are the world. Our abilities reach out to things beyond us and foretell the world we will inhabit. A fish’s fins reveal that water exists, just as an eagle’s wings in the egg presuppose air. We cannot live without a world. Put Napoleon on a prison island, with no people to act upon, no Alps to climb, and nothing to play for. He would beat the air and appear stupid. But bring him to large countries, dense populations, complex interests, and opposing powers. Then you will see that the man Napoleon, confined within his bodily outline, is not Napoleon in his full power. This is only Talbot’s shadow:

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

Columbus needs a planet to chart his course on. Newton and Laplace need countless ages and vast spaces filled with stars. One might say that the nature of Newton’s mind already foretells a solar system governed by gravity. From childhood, Davy and Gay-Lussac explored how particles attract and repel one another. Their minds, too, anticipate the laws of organization. Doesn’t the eye of a human embryo predict light? Doesn’t Handel’s ear predict the magic of musical harmony? Don’t the inventive fingers of Watt, Fulton, Whittemore, and Arkwright predict the nature of metals that can be melted, hardened, and tempered? Don’t they also predict the properties of stone, water, and wood? Don’t the lovely qualities of a young girl predict the refinements and decorations of civilized society? Here, too, we are reminded of how people affect one another. A person might ponder a thought for ages and learn less about himself than love can teach him in a day. Who knows himself before he has been stirred to indignation by an outrage, or heard an eloquent speaker? Who knows himself before he has shared the excitement or alarm of thousands throughout a nation? No one can know an experience before it happens. No one can guess what ability or feeling a new object will unlock. He can no more do that than he can draw today the face of someone he will meet tomorrow for the first time.

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

I will not now go beyond this general statement to explore why this correspondence exists. It is enough to say that history should be read and written in light of two facts. The mind is One, and nature corresponds to it.

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

In every way, then, the soul gathers and offers its treasures anew to each student. He too will pass through the whole cycle of experience. He will bring the rays of nature into focus. History will no longer be a dull book. It will come to life in every just and wise man. You will not list the books you have read by their languages and titles. You will make me feel which periods you have lived through. A man will be the Temple of Fame. He will walk as the poets described that goddess, wearing a robe covered with images of wonderful events and experiences. His own form and features, through their elevated intelligence, will be that colorful robe. In him I will find the ancient world. In his childhood I will find the Age of Gold, the Apples of Knowledge, and the Argonautic Expedition. I will find the calling of Abraham, the building of the Temple, and the Advent of Christ. I will find the Dark Ages, the Revival of Letters, and the Reformation. I will find the discovery of new lands, the opening of new sciences, and the discovery of new regions in man. He will be the priest of Pan. He will bring into humble cottages the blessing of the morning stars and all the recorded benefits of heaven and earth.

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

Is this claim too bold? If so, I reject everything I have written. What is the use of pretending to know what we do not know? But our language has a flaw. We cannot state one fact strongly without seeming to deny another. I place very little value on what we actually know. Hear the rats in the wall. See the lizard on the fence, the fungus underfoot, the lichen on the log. What do I know of any of these worlds of life through sympathy or moral understanding? These creatures are as old as Caucasian man, perhaps older. They have kept their secrets beside him. There is no record of any word or sign passing between them and him. What connection do books show between the fifty or sixty chemical elements and the eras of history? And what does history record of humanity’s metaphysical story? What light does it shed on the mysteries we hide under the names Death and Immortality? Yet every history should be written with wisdom that senses the full range of our connections and sees facts as symbols. I am ashamed to see what a shallow village story our so-called History is. How many times must we say Rome, and Paris, and Constantinople! What does Rome know of rats and lizards? What do Olympiads and Consulates mean to these neighboring systems of life? And what food, experience, or help do they offer the Esquimaux seal-hunter, the Kanaka in his canoe, the fisherman, the stevedore, or the porter?

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

We must write our history more broadly and deeply if we want it to express our central nature and its many connections more truly. It must spring from moral reform and an influx of conscience that is always new and always healing. Instead, we have spent too long looking at this old record of selfishness and pride. That day is already here for us, shining on us when we least expect it. But the path of science and literature is not the way into nature. The person with an intellectual disability, the Indigenous person, the child, and the unschooled farmer’s boy are closer to the light by which nature can be read than the anatomist or the scholar of antiquities.