Self-Reliance

I read the other day some verses written by an eminent painter which were original and not conventional. The soul always hears an admonition in such lines, let the subject be what it may. The sentiment they instil is of more value than any thought they may contain. To believe your own thought, to believe that what is true for you in your private heart is true for all men,—that is genius. Speak your latent conviction, and it shall be the universal sense; for the inmost in due time becomes the outmost, and our first thought is rendered back to us by the trumpets of the Last Judgment. Familiar as the voice of the mind is to each, the highest merit we ascribe to Moses, Plato and Milton is that they set at naught books and traditions, and spoke not what men, but what they thought. A man should learn to detect and watch that gleam of light which flashes across his mind from within, more than the lustre of the firmament of bards and sages. Yet he dismisses without notice his thought, because it is his. In every work of genius we recognize our own rejected thoughts; they come back to us with a certain alienated majesty. Great works of art have no more affecting lesson for us than this. They teach us to abide by our spontaneous impression with good-humored inflexibility then most when the whole cry of voices is on the other side. Else to-morrow a stranger will say with masterly good sense precisely what we have thought and felt all the time, and we shall be forced to take with shame our own opinion from another.

The other day I read some verses by a well-known painter. They were original, not conventional. Whatever the subject, the soul always hears a warning in such lines. The feeling they inspire is worth more than any thought they may contain. To believe your own thought, to believe that what is true in your private heart is true for all people, is genius. Speak your hidden conviction, and it will be what everyone feels. For what is deepest within eventually comes out. And our first thought is returned to us by the trumpets of the Last Judgment. The voice of our own mind is familiar to each of us. Yet the greatest merit we give Moses, Plato and Milton is that they disregarded books and traditions. They spoke not what other people thought, but what they thought. We should learn to notice and pay attention to the flashes of insight that come from within our own minds. These matter more than the brilliance of all the poets and wise thinkers. Yet we dismiss our own thoughts without noticing them, simply because they are ours. In every work of genius, we recognize our own rejected thoughts. They come back to us with a certain grandeur that makes them seem foreign. Great works of art teach us no more moving lesson than this. They teach us to stand by our immediate impressions with cheerful firmness, especially when everyone else is against us. Otherwise, tomorrow a stranger will say with masterly good sense exactly what we have thought and felt all along. Then we will be forced to accept our own opinion from someone else, to our shame.

There is a time in every man’s education when he arrives at the conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that he must take himself for better for worse as his portion; that though the wide universe is full of good, no kernel of nourishing corn can come to him but through his toil bestowed on that plot of ground which is given to him to till. The power which resides in him is new in nature, and none but he knows what that is which he can do, nor does he know until he has tried. Not for nothing one face, one character, one fact, makes much impression on him, and another none. This sculpture in the memory is not without preestablished harmony. The eye was placed where one ray should fall, that it might testify of that particular ray. We but half express ourselves, and are ashamed of that divine idea which each of us represents. It may be safely trusted as proportionate and of good issues, so it be faithfully imparted, but God will not have his work made manifest by cowards. A man is relieved and gay when he has put his heart into his work and done his best; but what he has said or done otherwise shall give him no peace. It is a deliverance which does not deliver. In the attempt his genius deserts him; no muse befriends; no invention, no hope.

There comes a time in every man’s education when he becomes convinced that envy is ignorance and imitation is suicide. He must accept himself as his lot, for better or worse. Though the vast universe is full of good things, no grain of nourishing corn can come to him except through his own labor on the plot of ground given to him to cultivate. The power within him is new to nature. No one but he knows what he can do, and he does not know until he has tried. It is not for nothing that one face, character, or fact makes a strong impression on him, while another makes none. These impressions carved into his memory are part of a harmony established in advance. The eye was placed where a particular ray would fall, so that it might bear witness to that ray. We express ourselves only halfway, ashamed of the divine idea each of us represents. We can trust that idea to be well proportioned and to produce good results, if we express it faithfully. But God will not reveal his work through cowards. A man feels relieved and joyful when he has put his heart into his work and done his best. But whatever he has said or done without doing so will give him no peace. It is an expression of himself that does not set him free. When he tries to work without putting his heart into it, his genius deserts him. No muse comes to his aid. He has no invention and no hope.

Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string. Accept the place the divine providence has found for you, the society of your contemporaries, the connection of events. Great men have always done so, and confided themselves childlike to the genius of their age, betraying their perception that the absolutely trustworthy was seated at their heart, working through their hands, predominating in all their being. And we are now men, and must accept in the highest mind the same transcendent destiny; and not minors and invalids in a protected corner, not cowards fleeing before a revolution, but guides, redeemers and benefactors, obeying the Almighty effort and advancing on Chaos and the Dark.

Trust yourself: every heart responds to that iron string. Accept the place divine providence has found for you, the company of your contemporaries, and the course of events. Great men have always done so. They have entrusted themselves, like children, to the spirit of their age. In doing so, they showed that they knew what was absolutely trustworthy lay in their hearts, worked through their hands, and ruled their whole being. Now we are men, too, and must accept that same transcendent destiny with our highest understanding. We must not be children and invalids in a sheltered corner, or cowards fleeing a revolution. We must be guides, redeemers, and benefactors, obeying the Almighty effort and advancing against Chaos and the Dark.

What pretty oracles nature yields us on this text in the face and behavior of children, babes, and even brutes! That divided and rebel mind, that distrust of a sentiment because our arithmetic has computed the strength and means opposed to our purpose, these have not. Their mind being whole, their eye is as yet unconquered, and when we look in their faces we are disconcerted. Infancy conforms to nobody; all conform to it; so that one babe commonly makes four or five out of the adults who prattle and play to it. So God has armed youth and puberty and manhood no less with its own piquancy and charm, and made it enviable and gracious and its claims not to be put by, if it will stand by itself. Do not think the youth has no force, because he cannot speak to you and me. Hark! in the next room his voice is sufficiently clear and emphatic. It seems he knows how to speak to his contemporaries. Bashful or bold then, he will know how to make us seniors very unnecessary.

What delightful lessons nature offers on this subject in the faces and behavior of children, babies, and even animals! They do not have divided minds at war with themselves. They do not distrust a feeling because they have calculated the strength and resources arrayed against their purpose. Their minds are whole, and their eyes are still unconquered. When we look into their faces, we are unsettled. A baby conforms to nobody. Everyone conforms to the baby, so that one baby commonly turns four or five adults into babies as they prattle and play with it. God has likewise given youth, adolescence, and adulthood their own distinctive appeal and charm. He has made each stage enviable and gracious, and its claims impossible to set aside, if it stands on its own. Do not think a young person has no power because he cannot speak to you and me. Listen! In the next room, his voice is clear and emphatic enough. It seems he knows how to speak to people his own age. Whether shy or bold, he will know how to make us older people quite unnecessary.

The nonchalance of boys who are sure of a dinner, and would disdain as much as a lord to do or say aught to conciliate one, is the healthy attitude of human nature. A boy is in the parlor what the pit is in the playhouse; independent, irresponsible, looking out from his corner on such people and facts as pass by, he tries and sentences them on their merits, in the swift, summary way of boys, as good, bad, interesting, silly, eloquent, troublesome. He cumbers himself never about consequences, about interests; he gives an independent, genuine verdict. You must court him; he does not court you. But the man is as it were clapped into jail by his consciousness. As soon as he has once acted or spoken with éclat he is a committed person, watched by the sympathy or the hatred of hundreds, whose affections must now enter into his account. There is no Lethe for this. Ah, that he could pass again into his neutrality! Who can thus avoid all pledges and, having observed, observe again from the same unaffected, unbiased, unbribable, unaffrighted innocence,—must always be formidable. He would utter opinions on all passing affairs, which being seen to be not private but necessary, would sink like darts into the ear of men and put them in fear.

The nonchalance of boys who are sure of dinner is the healthy attitude of human nature. Like a lord, they would scorn doing or saying anything to win a dinner. A boy in the parlor is like the audience in the pit of a theater. Independent and free of responsibility, he watches from his corner as people and events pass by. He judges them on their merits, in the quick, decisive way of boys. They are good, bad, interesting, silly, eloquent, or troublesome. He never burdens himself with consequences or personal interests. He gives an independent, honest verdict. You must court him. He does not court you. But a man is, as it were, imprisoned by his own self-consciousness. Once he has acted or spoken with distinction, he is committed to a position. Hundreds watch him with sympathy or hatred, and he must now take their feelings into account. There is no Lethe to wash away his past. Ah, if only he could return to his neutrality! Anyone who can avoid all commitments and observe again from the same unaffected, unbiased, incorruptible, fearless innocence must always be formidable. He would give opinions on all passing affairs. People would see that his opinions were not merely personal but unavoidable. They would sink like darts into men's ears and fill them with fear.

These are the voices which we hear in solitude, but they grow faint and inaudible as we enter into the world. Society everywhere is in conspiracy against the manhood of every one of its members. Society is a joint-stock company, in which the members agree, for the better securing of his bread to each shareholder, to surrender the liberty and culture of the eater. The virtue in most request is conformity. Self-reliance is its aversion. It loves not realities and creators, but names and customs.

These are the voices we hear when we are alone, but they grow faint and fade as we enter the world. Everywhere, society conspires against the independent character of each of its members. Society is like a joint-stock company. Its members agree to give up their freedom and development so that each shareholder can more securely earn a living. The quality society values most is conformity. It hates self-reliance. It loves not what is real or those who create, but names and customs.

Whoso would be a man, must be a nonconformist. He who would gather immortal palms must not be hindered by the name of goodness, but must explore if it be goodness. Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity of your own mind. Absolve you to yourself, and you shall have the suffrage of the world. I remember an answer which when quite young I was prompted to make to a valued adviser who was wont to importune me with the dear old doctrines of the church. On my saying, “What have I to do with the sacredness of traditions, if I live wholly from within?” my friend suggested,—“But these impulses may be from below, not from above.” I replied, “They do not seem to me to be such; but if I am the Devil’s child, I will live then from the Devil.” No law can be sacred to me but that of my nature. Good and bad are but names very readily transferable to that or this; the only right is what is after my constitution; the only wrong what is against it. A man is to carry himself in the presence of all opposition as if every thing were titular and ephemeral but he. I am ashamed to think how easily we capitulate to badges and names, to large societies and dead institutions. Every decent and well-spoken individual affects and sways me more than is right. I ought to go upright and vital, and speak the rude truth in all ways. If malice and vanity wear the coat of philanthropy, shall that pass? If an angry bigot assumes this bountiful cause of Abolition, and comes to me with his last news from Barbadoes, why should I not say to him, ‘Go love thy infant; love thy wood-chopper; be good-natured and modest; have that grace; and never varnish your hard, uncharitable ambition with this incredible tenderness for black folk a thousand miles off. Thy love afar is spite at home.’ Rough and graceless would be such greeting, but truth is handsomer than the affectation of love. Your goodness must have some edge to it,—else it is none. The doctrine of hatred must be preached, as the counteraction of the doctrine of love, when that pules and whines. I shun father and mother and wife and brother when my genius calls me. I would write on the lintels of the door-post, Whim. I hope it is somewhat better than whim at last, but we cannot spend the day in explanation. Expect me not to show cause why I seek or why I exclude company. Then again, do not tell me, as a good man did to-day, of my obligation to put all poor men in good situations. Are they my poor? I tell thee thou foolish philanthropist that I grudge the dollar, the dime, the cent, I give to such men as do not belong to me and to whom I do not belong. There is a class of persons to whom by all spiritual affinity I am bought and sold; for them I will go to prison if need be; but your miscellaneous popular charities; the education at college of fools; the building of meeting-houses to the vain end to which many now stand; alms to sots, and the thousand-fold Relief Societies;—though I confess with shame I sometimes succumb and give the dollar, it is a wicked dollar which by and by I shall have the manhood to withhold.

Whoever wants to be a man must be a nonconformist. Whoever wants to win immortal honors must not be held back by what is called goodness. He must ask whether it really is goodness. In the end, nothing is sacred but the integrity of your own mind. Clear yourself in your own eyes, and you will have the approval of the world. I remember an answer I was moved to give when I was quite young. A valued adviser had often pressed me to accept the dear old doctrines of the church. I said, “What do I care about the sacredness of traditions if I live wholly from within?” My friend suggested, “But these impulses may come from below, not from above.” I replied, “They do not seem to me to come from below. But if I am the Devil’s child, then I will live from the Devil.” No law can be sacred to me except the law of my own nature. Good and bad are just names that can easily be attached to one thing or another. The only right is what accords with my nature. The only wrong is what goes against it. A man should face all opposition as if everything but himself were merely a title and a passing thing. I am ashamed to think how easily we surrender to badges and names, to large societies and dead institutions. Every decent, well-spoken person influences and sways me more than is right. I ought to walk upright, full of life, and speak the plain truth in every situation. If malice and vanity dress themselves as philanthropy, should I let them pass? Suppose an angry bigot takes up the generous cause of Abolition. He comes to me with his latest news from Barbadoes. Why should I not say to him, ‘Go love your infant. Love your wood-chopper. Be good-natured and modest. Have that grace. And never dress up your harsh, uncharitable ambition with this unbelievable tenderness for black people a thousand miles away. Your love for those far away is spite toward those at home.’ Such a greeting would be rough and graceless, but truth is more beautiful than a show of love. Your goodness must have some edge to it, or it is not goodness at all. The doctrine of hatred must be preached to counter the doctrine of love when love whines and whimpers. I turn away from father and mother and wife and brother when my genius calls me. I would write on the lintels of the door-post, Whim. I hope what guides me is ultimately somewhat better than whim, but we cannot spend the day explaining ourselves. Do not expect me to explain why I seek or avoid company. And do not tell me, as a good man did today, that I am obliged to put all poor men in good situations. Are they my poor? I tell you, you foolish philanthropist, that I resent giving a dollar, a dime, or a cent to people who do not belong to me and to whom I do not belong. There is a class of people to whom I am bound by every spiritual affinity. For them I will go to prison if need be. But there are your assorted popular charities, the college education of fools, and the building of meeting-houses for the same useless purpose many now serve. There are alms for drunks and the countless Relief Societies. I confess with shame that I sometimes give in and give the dollar. But it is a wicked dollar, and before long I shall have the manhood to withhold it.

Virtues are, in the popular estimate, rather the exception than the rule. There is the man and his virtues. Men do what is called a good action, as some piece of courage or charity, much as they would pay a fine in expiation of daily non-appearance on parade. Their works are done as an apology or extenuation of their living in the world,—as invalids and the insane pay a high board. Their virtues are penances. I do not wish to expiate, but to live. My life is for itself and not for a spectacle. I much prefer that it should be of a lower strain, so it be genuine and equal, than that it should be glittering and unsteady. I wish it to be sound and sweet, and not to need diet and bleeding. I ask primary evidence that you are a man, and refuse this appeal from the man to his actions. I know that for myself it makes no difference whether I do or forbear those actions which are reckoned excellent. I cannot consent to pay for a privilege where I have intrinsic right. Few and mean as my gifts may be, I actually am, and do not need for my own assurance or the assurance of my fellows any secondary testimony.

Most people consider virtues the exception rather than the rule. There is the man and his virtues. Men perform what they call a good deed, an act of courage or charity, much as they would pay a fine for failing to show up at daily parade. Their deeds are an apology or excuse for their existence, just as the sick and insane pay a high price for their care. Their virtues are acts of penance. I do not wish to make amends. I wish to live. My life is for its own sake, not for show. I would much rather live at a lower level, if my life is genuine and steady, than live brilliantly and unevenly. I want my life to be healthy and pleasant, not to need dieting and bloodletting. I ask for direct evidence that you are a man. I refuse to judge the man by appealing to his actions instead. I know that, for me, it makes no difference whether I perform or refrain from actions considered excellent. I cannot agree to pay for a privilege when I already have a natural right to it. However few and humble my gifts may be, I exist. I need no further evidence to assure myself or others of that.

What I must do is all that concerns me, not what the people think. This rule, equally arduous in actual and in intellectual life, may serve for the whole distinction between greatness and meanness. It is the harder because you will always find those who think they know what is your duty better than you know it. It is easy in the world to live after the world’s opinion; it is easy in solitude to live after our own; but the great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude.

All that concerns me is what I must do, not what people think. This rule is equally hard to follow in action and in thought. It may express the whole difference between greatness and smallness of spirit. The rule is harder to follow because you will always find people who think they know your duty better than you do. It is easy to live by the world’s opinion when you are among others. It is easy to live by your own opinion when you are alone. But a great person keeps the independence of solitude, even in a crowd, and does so with perfect graciousness.

The objection to conforming to usages that have become dead to you is that it scatters your force. It loses your time and blurs the impression of your character. If you maintain a dead church, contribute to a dead Bible-society, vote with a great party either for the government or against it, spread your table like base housekeepers,—under all these screens I have difficulty to detect the precise man you are: and of course so much force is withdrawn from your proper life. But do your work, and I shall know you. Do your work, and you shall reinforce yourself. A man must consider what a blindman’s-buff is this game of conformity. If I know your sect, I anticipate your argument. I hear a preacher announce for his text and topic the expediency of one of the institutions of his church. Do I not know beforehand that not possibly can he say a new and spontaneous word? Do I not know that with all this ostentation of examining the grounds of the institution he will do no such thing? Do I not know that he is pledged to himself not to look but at one side, the permitted side, not as a man, but as a parish minister? He is a retained attorney, and these airs of the bench are the emptiest affectation. Well, most men have bound their eyes with one or another handkerchief, and attached themselves to some one of these communities of opinion. This conformity makes them not false in a few particulars, authors of a few lies, but false in all particulars. Their every truth is not quite true. Their two is not the real two, their four not the real four; so that every word they say chagrins us and we know not where to begin to set them right. Meantime nature is not slow to equip us in the prison-uniform of the party to which we adhere. We come to wear one cut of face and figure, and acquire by degrees the gentlest asinine expression. There is a mortifying experience in particular, which does not fail to wreak itself also in the general history; I mean “the foolish face of praise,” the forced smile which we put on in company where we do not feel at ease in answer to conversation which does not interest us. The muscles, not spontaneously moved but moved by a low usurping wilfulness, grow tight about the outline of the face with the most disagreeable sensation.

The problem with following customs that have become meaningless to you is that it scatters your energy. It wastes your time and blurs the impression of your character. Perhaps you support a lifeless church, contribute to a lifeless Bible society, or vote with a major party for or against the government. Perhaps you set your table like a vulgar host. Behind all these screens, I have trouble seeing exactly who you are. And of course, all that energy is taken away from the life that is truly yours. But do your work, and I will know you. Do your work, and you will strengthen yourself. A man must consider what a game of blindman’s buff this game of conformity is. If I know your religious sect, I can predict your argument. I hear a preacher announce that his sermon will be about the usefulness of one of his church’s institutions. Don’t I know beforehand that he cannot possibly say anything new or spontaneous? Don’t I know that, for all his show of examining the institution’s foundations, he will do no such thing? Don’t I know that he has pledged himself to look at only one side, the permitted side? He will look at it not as a man, but as a parish minister. He is a hired lawyer, and his pose as a judge is the emptiest pretense. Well, most men have blindfolded themselves with one handkerchief or another. They have attached themselves to one of these communities of opinion. Conformity does not make them false in just a few particulars, telling a few lies. It makes them false in every particular. Every truth they speak is not quite true. Their two is not the real two, and their four is not the real four. So every word they say frustrates us, and we do not know where to begin to correct them. Meanwhile, nature is quick to dress us in the prison uniform of the party we follow. Our faces and figures take on the same shape, and we gradually acquire the mildest expression of a donkey. There is one humiliating experience that also makes itself felt throughout our lives. I mean “the foolish face of praise,” the forced smile we put on when we feel uneasy in company. We put it on in response to conversation that does not interest us. The muscles do not move of their own accord. Instead, a low, willful effort takes control of them. They tighten around the edges of the face, causing a most unpleasant sensation.

For nonconformity the world whips you with its displeasure. And therefore a man must know how to estimate a sour face. The by-standers look askance on him in the public street or in the friend’s parlor. If this aversation had its origin in contempt and resistance like his own he might well go home with a sad countenance; but the sour faces of the multitude, like their sweet faces, have no deep cause, but are put on and off as the wind blows and a newspaper directs. Yet is the discontent of the multitude more formidable than that of the senate and the college. It is easy enough for a firm man who knows the world to brook the rage of the cultivated classes. Their rage is decorous and prudent, for they are timid, as being very vulnerable themselves. But when to their feminine rage the indignation of the people is added, when the ignorant and the poor are aroused, when the unintelligent brute force that lies at the bottom of society is made to growl and mow, it needs the habit of magnanimity and religion to treat it godlike as a trifle of no concernment.

The world punishes you with its disapproval when you refuse to conform. So a man must know how much weight to give a sour look. People look at him suspiciously on the street or in a friend’s sitting room. If their hostility came from contempt and resistance like his own, he might well go home looking sad. But the crowd’s sour looks, like its friendly ones, have no deep cause. People put them on and take them off as the wind blows and a newspaper directs. Yet the crowd’s disapproval is more formidable than that of the senate and the college. A firm man who knows the world can easily endure the anger of the educated classes. Their anger is polite and cautious because they are timid and vulnerable themselves. But the people’s indignation may be added to their feminine anger. The ignorant and the poor may be stirred up, and the mindless brute force at the bottom of society may begin to growl and grimace. Then a man needs a practiced generosity of spirit and religious faith to treat it like a god, as a trifle of no concern.

The other terror that scares us from self-trust is our consistency; a reverence for our past act or word because the eyes of others have no other data for computing our orbit than our past acts, and we are loath to disappoint them.

The other fear that keeps us from trusting ourselves is our consistency. We cling to what we have done or said before because others have only our past actions to predict our course. And we are reluctant to disappoint them.

But why should you keep your head over your shoulder? Why drag about this corpse of your memory, lest you contradict somewhat you have stated in this or that public place? Suppose you should contradict yourself; what then? It seems to be a rule of wisdom never to rely on your memory alone, scarcely even in acts of pure memory, but to bring the past for judgment into the thousand-eyed present, and live ever in a new day. In your metaphysics you have denied personality to the Deity, yet when the devout motions of the soul come, yield to them heart and life, though they should clothe God with shape and color. Leave your theory, as Joseph his coat in the hand of the harlot, and flee.

But why keep looking over your shoulder? Why drag around the corpse of your memory to avoid contradicting something you said in public? Suppose you do contradict yourself. What then? Wisdom seems to say that you should never rely on memory alone, even when simply recalling something. Instead, bring the past before the thousand-eyed present for judgment, and always live in a new day. In your metaphysics, you have denied that God is a person. Yet when your soul feels devotion, give yourself to it with all your heart and life, even if those feelings give God shape and color. Leave your theory behind and flee, as Joseph left his coat in the hand of the harlot.

A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines. With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do. He may as well concern himself with his shadow on the wall. Speak what you think now in hard words and to-morrow speak what to-morrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said to-day.—‘Ah, so you shall be sure to be misunderstood.’—Is it so bad then to be misunderstood? Pythagoras was misunderstood, and Socrates, and Jesus, and Luther, and Copernicus, and Galileo, and Newton, and every pure and wise spirit that ever took flesh. To be great is to be misunderstood.

A foolish need to be consistent is the bogeyman of small minds, adored by petty politicians, philosophers, and religious thinkers. A great soul has nothing to do with consistency. He might as well worry about his shadow on the wall. Speak plainly and forcefully what you think now. Tomorrow, speak just as plainly and forcefully what you think then, even if it contradicts everything you said today. “Ah, but then you are sure to be misunderstood.” Is being misunderstood so bad? Pythagoras was misunderstood, and so were Socrates, Jesus, Luther, Copernicus, Galileo, and Newton. So was every pure and wise spirit that ever lived. To be great is to be misunderstood.

I suppose no man can violate his nature. All the sallies of his will are rounded in by the law of his being, as the inequalities of Andes and Himmaleh are insignificant in the curve of the sphere. Nor does it matter how you gauge and try him. A character is like an acrostic or Alexandrian stanza;—read it forward, backward, or across, it still spells the same thing. In this pleasing contrite wood-life which God allows me, let me record day by day my honest thought without prospect or retrospect, and, I cannot doubt, it will be found symmetrical, though I mean it not and see it not. My book should smell of pines and resound with the hum of insects. The swallow over my window should interweave that thread or straw he carries in his bill into my web also. We pass for what we are. Character teaches above our wills. Men imagine that they communicate their virtue or vice only by overt actions, and do not see that virtue or vice emit a breath every moment.

I suppose no one can go against their nature. Every impulse of their will falls within the law of their being. In the same way, the uneven heights of the Andes and Himmaleh are insignificant against the curve of the globe. It does not matter how you measure or test a person. Character is like an acrostic or an Alexandrian stanza. Read it forward, backward, or across, and it still spells the same thing. In this pleasant, humble life in the woods that God allows me, let me record my honest thoughts each day. Let me do so without looking forward or backward. I cannot doubt that my thoughts will form a balanced whole, though I neither intend nor see it. My book should smell of pines and echo with the hum of insects. The swallow above my window should weave the thread or straw in his beak into my web, too. We are seen for what we are. Character reveals itself regardless of our intentions. People imagine that they show their virtue or vice only through open actions. They do not see that virtue or vice gives off a breath at every moment.

There will be an agreement in whatever variety of actions, so they be each honest and natural in their hour. For of one will, the actions will be harmonious, however unlike they seem. These varieties are lost sight of at a little distance, at a little height of thought. One tendency unites them all. The voyage of the best ship is a zigzag line of a hundred tacks. See the line from a sufficient distance, and it straightens itself to the average tendency. Your genuine action will explain itself and will explain your other genuine actions. Your conformity explains nothing. Act singly, and what you have already done singly will justify you now. Greatness appeals to the future. If I can be firm enough to-day to do right and scorn eyes, I must have done so much right before as to defend me now. Be it how it will, do right now. Always scorn appearances and you always may. The force of character is cumulative. All the foregone days of virtue work their health into this. What makes the majesty of the heroes of the senate and the field, which so fills the imagination? The consciousness of a train of great days and victories behind. They shed an united light on the advancing actor. He is attended as by a visible escort of angels. That is it which throws thunder into Chatham’s voice, and dignity into Washington’s port, and America into Adams’s eye. Honor is venerable to us because it is no ephemera. It is always ancient virtue. We worship it to-day because it is not of to-day. We love it and pay it homage because it is not a trap for our love and homage, but is self-dependent, self-derived, and therefore of an old immaculate pedigree, even if shown in a young person.

Your actions will agree with one another, however varied they are, as long as each is honest and natural when you act. Actions arising from one will are harmonious, however different they may seem. Their differences disappear when viewed from a little distance, from a slightly higher level of thought. One direction unites them all. The best ship takes a zigzag course, changing direction a hundred times. Seen from far enough away, its course becomes a straight line in its overall direction. A genuine action will explain itself and your other genuine actions. Conformity explains nothing. Act independently, and what you have already done independently will justify you now. Greatness appeals to the future. If I can be firm enough today to do right and disregard others’ judgment, I must have done enough right before to defend me now. Whatever the case, do right now. Always disregard appearances, and you will always be able to do so. The strength of character builds over time. All the good in past days of virtue strengthens the present day. What gives the heroes of the senate and the battlefield their majesty, so that they fill our imagination? They know they have a history of great days and victories behind them. Those days and victories cast a united light on the hero moving forward. It is as if a visible escort of angels attended him. That is what puts thunder in Chatham’s voice, dignity in Washington’s bearing, and America in Adams’s eye. We revere honor because it does not last for just a day. It is always a virtue with a long history. We worship it today because it does not belong only to today. We love and pay homage to honor because it is not a trap set to win our love and homage. It depends on itself and comes from itself. It therefore has an old and spotless lineage, even when a young person shows it.

I hope in these days we have heard the last of conformity and consistency. Let the words be gazetted and ridiculous henceforward. Instead of the gong for dinner, let us hear a whistle from the Spartan fife. Let us never bow and apologize more. A great man is coming to eat at my house. I do not wish to please him; I wish that he should wish to please me. I will stand here for humanity, and though I would make it kind, I would make it true. Let us affront and reprimand the smooth mediocrity and squalid contentment of the times, and hurl in the face of custom and trade and office, the fact which is the upshot of all history, that there is a great responsible Thinker and Actor working wherever a man works; that a true man belongs to no other time or place, but is the centre of things. Where he is, there is nature. He measures you and all men and all events. Ordinarily, every body in society reminds us of somewhat else, or of some other person. Character, reality, reminds you of nothing else; it takes place of the whole creation. The man must be so much that he must make all circumstances indifferent. Every true man is a cause, a country, and an age; requires infinite spaces and numbers and time fully to accomplish his design;—and posterity seem to follow his steps as a train of clients. A man Cæsar is born, and for ages after we have a Roman Empire. Christ is born, and millions of minds so grow and cleave to his genius that he is confounded with virtue and the possible of man. An institution is the lengthened shadow of one man; as, Monachism, of the Hermit Antony; the Reformation, of Luther; Quakerism, of Fox; Methodism, of Wesley; Abolition, of Clarkson. Scipio, Milton called “the height of Rome”; and all history resolves itself very easily into the biography of a few stout and earnest persons.

I hope we have heard the last of conformity and consistency in our time. From now on, let those words be publicly exposed and ridiculed. Instead of a dinner gong, let us hear a whistle from the Spartan fife. Let us never bow and apologize again. A great man is coming to eat at my house. I do not want to please him. I want him to want to please me. I will stand here for humanity. Though I would make humanity kind, I would also make it true. Let us challenge and rebuke the polished mediocrity and shabby contentment of our times. Let us hurl in the face of custom, trade, and public office the conclusion of all history. Wherever a man works, a great, responsible Thinker and Actor is at work. A true man belongs to no particular time or place. He is the center of things. Wherever he is, there is nature. He is the measure of you, all men, and all events. Ordinarily, everyone in society reminds us of something or someone else. True character reminds you of nothing else. It takes the place of all creation. A man must be so fully himself that circumstances make no difference to him. Every true man is a cause, a country, and an age. He needs infinite space, numbers, and time to fully accomplish his design. Future generations seem to follow in his steps like a train of followers. Cæsar is born, and for ages afterward we have a Roman Empire. Christ is born, and millions of minds grow in such sympathy with his genius and cling to it so closely that he becomes identified with virtue and with everything possible for humanity. An institution is the long shadow of one man. Monachism is the shadow of the Hermit Antony, the Reformation of Luther, Quakerism of Fox, Methodism of Wesley, and Abolition of Clarkson. Milton called Scipio “the height of Rome.” All history can be understood very easily as the biographies of a few strong and earnest people.

Let a man then know his worth, and keep things under his feet. Let him not peep or steal, or skulk up and down with the air of a charity-boy, a bastard, or an interloper in the world which exists for him. But the man in the street, finding no worth in himself which corresponds to the force which built a tower or sculptured a marble god, feels poor when he looks on these. To him a palace, a statue, or a costly book have an alien and forbidding air, much like a gay equipage, and seem to say like that, ‘Who are you, Sir?’ Yet they all are his, suitors for his notice, petitioners to his faculties that they will come out and take possession. The picture waits for my verdict; it is not to command me, but I am to settle its claims to praise. That popular fable of the sot who was picked up dead drunk in the street, carried to the duke’s house, washed and dressed and laid in the duke’s bed, and, on his waking, treated with all obsequious ceremony like the duke, and assured that he had been insane, owes its popularity to the fact that it symbolizes so well the state of man, who is in the world a sort of sot, but now and then wakes up, exercises his reason and finds himself a true prince.

Let a man know his own worth and keep things beneath his feet. Let him not peek, steal, or skulk around like a charity boy, an illegitimate child, or an intruder in a world that exists for him. But the ordinary man finds nothing in himself equal to the power that built a tower or sculpted a marble god. When he looks at these works, he feels poor. To him, a palace, a statue, or an expensive book seems foreign and forbidding, much like a splendid carriage. Like the carriage, each seems to say, ‘Who are you, Sir?’ Yet all these things belong to him. They seek his attention and ask his powers to come forward and take possession. The picture waits for my judgment. It is not meant to command me. I am the one who must decide whether it deserves praise. A popular tale tells of a drunk picked up from the street, dead drunk, and carried to a duke’s house. He is washed, dressed, and put to bed in the duke’s bed. When he wakes, he is treated with all the fawning ceremony due a duke and assured that he has been insane. The tale is popular because it captures the state of man so well. In the world, man is a kind of drunk, but now and then he wakes, uses his reason, and finds himself a true prince.

Our reading is mendicant and sycophantic. In history our imagination plays us false. Kingdom and lordship, power and estate, are a gaudier vocabulary than private John and Edward in a small house and common day’s work; but the things of life are the same to both; the sum total of both is the same. Why all this deference to Alfred and Scanderbeg and Gustavus? Suppose they were virtuous; did they wear out virtue? As great a stake depends on your private act to-day, as followed their public and renowned steps. When private men shall act with original views, the lustre will be transferred from the actions of kings to those of gentlemen.

Our reading is begging and flattering. When we read history, our imagination misleads us. Kingdoms and lordship, power and estates sound more impressive than private citizens like John and Edward, living in a small house and doing an ordinary day’s work. But the things of life are the same for both. The total value of their lives is the same. Why do we show so much deference to Alfred and Scanderbeg and Gustavus? Suppose they were virtuous. Did they use up all the virtue? As much is at stake in your private act today as was at stake in their famous public deeds. When private citizens act on their own original ideas, the glory will pass from the actions of kings to those of ordinary people.

The world has been instructed by its kings, who have so magnetized the eyes of nations. It has been taught by this colossal symbol the mutual reverence that is due from man to man. The joyful loyalty with which men have everywhere suffered the king, the noble, or the great proprietor to walk among them by a law of his own, make his own scale of men and things and reverse theirs, pay for benefits not with money but with honor, and represent the law in his person, was the hieroglyphic by which they obscurely signified their consciousness of their own right and comeliness, the right of every man.

The world has learned from its kings, who have captivated the eyes of nations. This towering symbol has taught people the mutual respect they owe one another. Everywhere, people have shown joyful loyalty in allowing a king, noble, or great landowner to live by his own rules. They have allowed him to judge people and things by his own standards, reversing theirs. They have allowed him to repay favors with honor rather than money and to embody the law in his own person. This loyalty was a kind of hieroglyph. Through it, people dimly expressed their awareness of their own rights and dignity, the rights of every person.

The magnetism which all original action exerts is explained when we inquire the reason of self-trust. Who is the Trustee? What is the aboriginal Self, on which a universal reliance may be grounded? What is the nature and power of that science-baffling star, without parallax, without calculable elements, which shoots a ray of beauty even into trivial and impure actions, if the least mark of independence appear? The inquiry leads us to that source, at once the essence of genius, of virtue, and of life, which we call Spontaneity or Instinct. We denote this primary wisdom as Intuition, whilst all later teachings are tuitions. In that deep force, the last fact behind which analysis cannot go, all things find their common origin. For the sense of being which in calm hours rises, we know not how, in the soul, is not diverse from things, from space, from light, from time, from man, but one with them and proceeds obviously from the same source whence their life and being also proceed. We first share the life by which things exist and afterwards see them as appearances in nature and forget that we have shared their cause. Here is the fountain of action and of thought. Here are the lungs of that inspiration which giveth man wisdom and which cannot be denied without impiety and atheism. We lie in the lap of immense intelligence, which makes us receivers of its truth and organs of its activity. When we discern justice, when we discern truth, we do nothing of ourselves, but allow a passage to its beams. If we ask whence this comes, if we seek to pry into the soul that causes, all philosophy is at fault. Its presence or its absence is all we can affirm. Every man discriminates between the voluntary acts of his mind and his involuntary perceptions, and knows that to his involuntary perceptions a perfect faith is due. He may err in the expression of them, but he knows that these things are so, like day and night, not to be disputed. My wilful actions and acquisitions are but roving;—the idlest reverie, the faintest native emotion, command my curiosity and respect. Thoughtless people contradict as readily the statement of perceptions as of opinions, or rather much more readily; for they do not distinguish between perception and notion. They fancy that I choose to see this or that thing. But perception is not whimsical, but fatal. If I see a trait, my children will see it after me, and in course of time all mankind,—although it may chance that no one has seen it before me. For my perception of it is as much a fact as the sun.

We can explain the attraction of all original action by asking why we trust ourselves. Who is the one we trust? What is the original Self, on which everyone can depend? What is the nature and power of that star that defies science, with no parallax and no measurable elements? It sends a ray of beauty even into trivial and impure actions, if they show the slightest independence. This inquiry leads us to a source that is the essence of genius, virtue, and life. We call it Spontaneity or Instinct. We call this first wisdom Intuition, while all later teachings are lessons. In that deep force, the final fact beyond which analysis cannot go, all things have their common origin. In calm moments, a sense of being rises in the soul, though we do not know how. This sense is not separate from things, space, light, time, or humanity. It is one with them. It clearly comes from the same source as their life and existence. We first share the life through which things exist. Only afterward do we see them as appearances in nature and forget that we have shared their cause. Here is the source of action and thought. Here are the lungs of the inspiration that gives people wisdom. To deny this inspiration is to be impious and atheistic. We lie in the lap of immense intelligence. It makes us receivers of its truth and instruments of its activity. When we recognize justice or truth, we do nothing on our own. We simply let the beams of that intelligence pass through us. If we ask where it comes from, or try to look into the soul that causes it, all philosophy fails. All we can say is whether it is present or absent. Everyone distinguishes between the deliberate acts of the mind and its involuntary perceptions. Everyone knows that these involuntary perceptions deserve complete trust. A person may make mistakes in expressing them. But that person knows these things are facts, like day and night, and cannot be disputed. My deliberate actions and acquisitions are merely wanderings. The most idle daydream and the faintest natural emotion command my curiosity and respect. Thoughtless people contradict statements of perceptions as readily as statements of opinions. In fact, they do so much more readily, because they do not distinguish between a perception and an idea. They imagine that I choose to see one thing or another. But perception is not a matter of whim. It is inevitable. If I see a trait, my children will see it after me, and in time all humanity will see it. That will happen even though no one may have seen it before me. For my perception of it is as much a fact as the sun.

The relations of the soul to the divine spirit are so pure that it is profane to seek to interpose helps. It must be that when God speaketh he should communicate, not one thing, but all things; should fill the world with his voice; should scatter forth light, nature, time, souls, from the centre of the present thought; and new date and new create the whole. Whenever a mind is simple and receives a divine wisdom, old things pass away,—means, teachers, texts, temples fall; it lives now, and absorbs past and future into the present hour. All things are made sacred by relation to it,—one as much as another. All things are dissolved to their centre by their cause, and in the universal miracle petty and particular miracles disappear. If therefore a man claims to know and speak of God and carries you backward to the phraseology of some old mouldered nation in another country, in another world, believe him not. Is the acorn better than the oak which is its fulness and completion? Is the parent better than the child into whom he has cast his ripened being? Whence then this worship of the past? The centuries are conspirators against the sanity and authority of the soul. Time and space are but physiological colors which the eye makes, but the soul is light: where it is, is day; where it was, is night; and history is an impertinence and an injury if it be any thing more than a cheerful apologue or parable of my being and becoming.

The soul’s relationship with the divine spirit is so pure that it is profane to seek help from anything in between. When God speaks, he must communicate not one thing, but all things. He must fill the world with his voice. From the center of the present thought, he must send forth light, nature, time, and souls. He must give the whole world a new beginning and create it anew. Whenever a mind is simple and receives divine wisdom, old things pass away. Means, teachers, texts, and temples fall away. The mind lives now and absorbs the past and future into the present hour. Everything is made sacred by its relation to that mind, one thing as much as another. All things are dissolved to their center by their cause. In the universal miracle, small and particular miracles disappear. So if someone claims to know and speak of God, but takes you back to the language of an ancient, long-decayed nation in another country, another world, do not believe him. Is the acorn better than the oak, which is the acorn in its fullness and completion? Is the parent better than the child, into whom the parent has passed his mature being? Then why do we worship the past? The centuries conspire against the sanity and authority of the soul. Time and space are only colors the eye creates through its own workings. But the soul is light. Where the soul is, it is day. Where the soul was, it is night. And history is an intrusion and an injury if it is anything more than a cheerful fable or parable of my being and becoming.

Man is timid and apologetic; he is no longer upright; he dares not say ‘I think,’ ‘I am,’ but quotes some saint or sage. He is ashamed before the blade of grass or the blowing rose. These roses under my window make no reference to former roses or to better ones; they are for what they are; they exist with God to-day. There is no time to them. There is simply the rose; it is perfect in every moment of its existence. Before a leaf-bud has burst, its whole life acts; in the full-blown flower there is no more; in the leafless root there is no less. Its nature is satisfied and it satisfies nature in all moments alike. But man postpones or remembers; he does not live in the present, but with reverted eye laments the past, or, heedless of the riches that surround him, stands on tiptoe to foresee the future. He cannot be happy and strong until he too lives with nature in the present, above time.

Man is timid and apologetic. He no longer stands upright. He does not dare say ‘I think’ or ‘I am,’ but quotes some saint or wise man instead. He feels ashamed before a blade of grass or a blooming rose. The roses under my window make no reference to earlier roses or to better ones. They exist as they are, with God, today. Time does not exist for them. There is simply the rose, perfect at every moment of its existence. Before a leaf bud opens, the rose’s whole life is at work. There is no more life in the fully opened flower and no less in the leafless root. The rose’s nature is satisfied, and it satisfies nature equally at every moment. But man puts things off or looks back. He does not live in the present. Instead, he looks back and mourns the past. Or, ignoring the riches around him, he stands on tiptoe to glimpse the future. He cannot be happy and strong until he too lives with nature in the present, above time.

This should be plain enough. Yet see what strong intellects dare not yet hear God himself unless he speak the phraseology of I know not what David, or Jeremiah, or Paul. We shall not always set so great a price on a few texts, on a few lives. We are like children who repeat by rote the sentences of grandames and tutors, and, as they grow older, of the men of talents and character they chance to see,—painfully recollecting the exact words they spoke; afterwards, when they come into the point of view which those had who uttered these sayings, they understand them and are willing to let the words go; for at any time they can use words as good when occasion comes. If we live truly, we shall see truly. It is as easy for the strong man to be strong, as it is for the weak to be weak. When we have new perception, we shall gladly disburden the memory of its hoarded treasures as old rubbish. When a man lives with God, his voice shall be as sweet as the murmur of the brook and the rustle of the corn.

This should be clear enough. Yet see how even powerful minds still dare not hear God himself unless he speaks in the words of some David, Jeremiah, or Paul. We will not always place such value on a few texts or a few lives. We are like children who repeat their grandmothers’ and teachers’ words by rote. As they grow older, they repeat the words of talented people of character they happen to meet. They take pains to remember the exact words those people spoke. Later, they come to see things from the same point of view as the people who spoke those words. Then they understand the sayings and are willing to let the words go. For they can find words just as good whenever the occasion calls for them. If we live truly, we will see truly. It is as easy for a strong person to be strong as it is for a weak person to be weak. When we gain new insight, we will gladly free our memories of their hoarded treasures, as if they were old rubbish. When a person lives with God, his voice will be as sweet as the murmur of a brook and the rustling of corn.

And now at last the highest truth on this subject remains unsaid; probably cannot be said; for all that we say is the far-off remembering of the intuition. That thought by what I can now nearest approach to say it, is this. When good is near you, when you have life in yourself, it is not by any known or accustomed way; you shall not discern the footprints of any other; you shall not see the face of man; you shall not hear any name;—the way, the thought, the good shall be wholly strange and new. It shall exclude example and experience. You take the way from man, not to man. All persons that ever existed are its forgotten ministers. Fear and hope are alike beneath it. There is somewhat low even in hope. In the hour of vision there is nothing that can be called gratitude, nor properly joy. The soul raised over passion beholds identity and eternal causation, perceives the self-existence of Truth and Right, and calms itself with knowing that all things go well. Vast spaces of nature, the Atlantic Ocean, the South Sea; long intervals of time, years, centuries, are of no account. This which I think and feel underlay every former state of life and circumstances, as it does underlie my present, and what is called life, and what is called death.

And now, at last, the highest truth about this subject remains unsaid. It probably cannot be said. Everything we say is only a distant recollection of the insight. The closest I can now come to expressing the thought is this: When good is near you, when you have life within yourself, it comes by no familiar or accustomed path. You will see no one else’s footprints. You will see no human face and hear no name. The path, the thought, and the good will be entirely strange and new. They will leave no room for example or experience. You take the path away from people, not toward them. All people who ever lived are its forgotten servants. Both fear and hope are beneath it. There is something low even in hope. In the hour of vision, there is nothing that can be called gratitude, or even properly called joy. The soul, raised above passion, sees identity and eternal causation. It sees that Truth and Right exist in themselves. It finds calm in knowing that all things go well. Vast stretches of nature, the Atlantic Ocean and the South Sea, count for nothing. Nor do long periods of time, years or centuries. What I think and feel now lay beneath every earlier state of life and every circumstance. It also lies beneath my present state and circumstances, and beneath what we call life and what we call death.

Life only avails, not the having lived. Power ceases in the instant of repose; it resides in the moment of transition from a past to a new state, in the shooting of the gulf, in the darting to an aim. This one fact the world hates; that the soul becomes; for that for ever degrades the past, turns all riches to poverty, all reputation to a shame, confounds the saint with the rogue, shoves Jesus and Judas equally aside. Why then do we prate of self-reliance? Inasmuch as the soul is present there will be power not confident but agent. To talk of reliance is a poor external way of speaking. Speak rather of that which relies because it works and is. Who has more obedience than I masters me, though he should not raise his finger. Round him I must revolve by the gravitation of spirits. We fancy it rhetoric when we speak of eminent virtue. We do not yet see that virtue is Height, and that a man or a company of men, plastic and permeable to principles, by the law of nature must overpower and ride all cities, nations, kings, rich men, poets, who are not.

Only living matters, not having lived. Power disappears the moment we come to rest. It exists in the passage from an old state to a new one, in the leap across the gulf, in the rush toward a goal. The world hates this one fact: that the soul becomes. For this becoming constantly devalues the past. It turns all riches into poverty and all reputation into shame. It makes no distinction between the saint and the rogue. It pushes Jesus and Judas equally aside. Why, then, do we talk so much about self-reliance? Wherever the soul is present, there will be power, not merely confident but active. To speak of reliance is a poor way of describing it from the outside. Speak instead of what relies on itself because it acts and exists. Whoever is more obedient than I am masters me, though he never raises a finger. I must revolve around him, drawn by the gravity of spirits. We think we are merely using rhetoric when we speak of great virtue. We do not yet see that virtue is Height. By a law of nature, a person or group open to being shaped and guided by principles must overpower and rule all cities, nations, kings, rich men, and poets who are not.

This is the ultimate fact which we so quickly reach on this, as on every topic, the resolution of all into the ever-blessed ONE. Self-existence is the attribute of the Supreme Cause, and it constitutes the measure of good by the degree in which it enters into all lower forms. All things real are so by so much virtue as they contain. Commerce, husbandry, hunting, whaling, war, eloquence, personal weight, are somewhat, and engage my respect as examples of its presence and impure action. I see the same law working in nature for conservation and growth. Power is, in nature, the essential measure of right. Nature suffers nothing to remain in her kingdoms which cannot help itself. The genesis and maturation of a planet, its poise and orbit, the bended tree recovering itself from the strong wind, the vital resources of every animal and vegetable, are demonstrations of the self-sufficing and therefore self-relying soul.

On this topic, as on every other, we quickly reach the ultimate fact: everything resolves into the ever-blessed ONE. Self-existence is the attribute of the Supreme Cause. The degree to which self-existence enters all lower forms determines how good they are. All things are real to the extent that they contain virtue. Commerce, farming, hunting, whaling, war, eloquence, and personal influence all have some value. I respect them as examples of this virtue, though it acts imperfectly in them. I see the same law working in nature to preserve things and help them grow. In nature, power is the essential measure of right. Nature allows nothing to remain in her kingdoms that cannot help itself. The formation and growth of a planet, its balance and orbit, and a bent tree recovering from a strong wind show this. So do the vital resources of every animal and plant. All are demonstrations of the soul that is self-sufficient and therefore self-reliant.

Thus all concentrates: let us not rove; let us sit at home with the cause. Let us stun and astonish the intruding rabble of men and books and institutions, by a simple declaration of the divine fact. Bid the invaders take the shoes from off their feet, for God is here within. Let our simplicity judge them, and our docility to our own law demonstrate the poverty of nature and fortune beside our native riches.

So everything comes together. Let us not wander. Let us stay home with the cause. Let us stun and astonish the intruding crowd of people, books, and institutions by simply declaring the divine fact. Tell the invaders to take off their shoes, for God is here within us. Let our simplicity judge them. Let our willingness to follow our own law show how poor nature and fortune are beside the riches within us.

But now we are a mob. Man does not stand in awe of man, nor is his genius admonished to stay at home, to put itself in communication with the internal ocean, but it goes abroad to beg a cup of water of the urns of other men. We must go alone. I like the silent church before the service begins, better than any preaching. How far off, how cool, how chaste the persons look, begirt each one with a precinct or sanctuary! So let us always sit. Why should we assume the faults of our friend, or wife, or father, or child, because they sit around our hearth, or are said to have the same blood? All men have my blood and I have all men’s. Not for that will I adopt their petulance or folly, even to the extent of being ashamed of it. But your isolation must not be mechanical, but spiritual, that is, must be elevation. At times the whole world seems to be in conspiracy to importune you with emphatic trifles. Friend, client, child, sickness, fear, want, charity, all knock at once at thy closet door and say,—‘Come out unto us.’ But keep thy state; come not into their confusion. The power men possess to annoy me I give them by a weak curiosity. No man can come near me but through my act. “What we love that we have, but by desire we bereave ourselves of the love.”

But now we are a mob. We no longer stand in awe of one another. Our genius is not urged to stay at home and connect with the ocean within. Instead, it goes abroad to beg a cup of water from other people’s urns. We must go alone. I like the silent church before the service begins better than any sermon. How distant, calm, and pure the people look, each surrounded by a space of their own, a sanctuary! Let us always sit that way. Why should we take on the faults of a friend, wife, father, or child? Why should we do so because they sit around our hearth or are said to share our blood? All people share my blood, and I share theirs. But that does not mean I will take on their bad temper or foolishness, or even feel ashamed of it. Your separation must not be merely outward, but spiritual. It must lift you above the confusion. At times the whole world seems to conspire to pester you with trivial but urgent demands. Friend, client, child, sickness, fear, need, and charity all knock at your private door at once. They say, “Come out to us.” But hold your ground. Do not join their confusion. People can annoy me only because I give them that power through weak curiosity. No one can come near me unless I let them. “What we love, we have, but by desiring it, we deprive ourselves of love.”

If we cannot at once rise to the sanctities of obedience and faith, let us at least resist our temptations; let us enter into the state of war and wake Thor and Woden, courage and constancy, in our Saxon breasts. This is to be done in our smooth times by speaking the truth. Check this lying hospitality and lying affection. Live no longer to the expectation of these deceived and deceiving people with whom we converse. Say to them, ‘O father, O mother, O wife, O brother, O friend, I have lived with you after appearances hitherto. Henceforward I am the truth’s. Be it known unto you that henceforward I obey no law less than the eternal law. I will have no covenants but proximities. I shall endeavour to nourish my parents, to support my family, to be the chaste husband of one wife,—but these relations I must fill after a new and unprecedented way. I appeal from your customs. I must be myself. I cannot break myself any longer for you, or you. If you can love me for what I am, we shall be the happier. If you cannot, I will still seek to deserve that you should. I will not hide my tastes or aversions. I will so trust that what is deep is holy, that I will do strongly before the sun and moon whatever inly rejoices me and the heart appoints. If you are noble, I will love you: if you are not, I will not hurt you and myself by hypocritical attentions. If you are true, but not in the same truth with me, cleave to your companions; I will seek my own. I do this not selfishly but humbly and truly. It is alike your interest, and mine, and all men’s, however long we have dwelt in lies, to live in truth. Does this sound harsh to-day? You will soon love what is dictated by your nature as well as mine, and if we follow the truth it will bring us out safe at last.’—But so may you give these friends pain. Yes, but I cannot sell my liberty and my power, to save their sensibility. Besides, all persons have their moments of reason, when they look out into the region of absolute truth; then will they justify me and do the same thing.

If we cannot immediately rise to the sacred heights of obedience and faith, let us at least resist temptation. Let us declare war and awaken Thor and Woden, courage and constancy, in our Saxon hearts. In our smooth and comfortable times, we can do this by speaking the truth. Stop offering false hospitality and affection. Stop living to meet the expectations of the deceived and deceiving people we deal with. Say to them, ‘Father, mother, wife, brother, friend, until now I have lived with you according to appearances. From now on, I belong to the truth. Know that I will obey no law less than the eternal law. I will make no binding promises, but will follow the bonds of closeness. I will try to nourish my parents, support my family, and be faithful to one wife. But I must fulfill these relationships in a new and unprecedented way. I reject your customs. I must be myself. I can no longer bend myself out of shape for any of you. If you can love me for what I am, we will be happier. If you cannot, I will still try to deserve your love. I will not hide my likes or dislikes. I will trust so fully that what is deep is holy that I will act openly and boldly on whatever inwardly delights me and my heart directs me to do. If you are noble, I will love you. If you are not, I will not hurt either of us with insincere attentions. If you are true, but do not share my truth, stay with your companions. I will seek my own. I do this not selfishly, but humbly and honestly. Living in truth is in your interest, mine, and everyone’s, however long we have lived in lies. Does this sound harsh today? You will soon love what your nature and mine both demand. If we follow the truth, it will bring us safely through in the end.’ But you may hurt these friends. Yes, but I cannot sell my freedom and my power to spare their feelings. Besides, everyone has moments of reason, when they look out into the realm of absolute truth. Then they will see that I am right and do the same.

The populace think that your rejection of popular standards is a rejection of all standard, and mere antinomianism; and the bold sensualist will use the name of philosophy to gild his crimes. But the law of consciousness abides. There are two confessionals, in one or the other of which we must be shriven. You may fulfil your round of duties by clearing yourself in the direct, or in the reflex way. Consider whether you have satisfied your relations to father, mother, cousin, neighbor, town, cat, and dog; whether any of these can upbraid you. But I may also neglect this reflex standard and absolve me to myself. I have my own stern claims and perfect circle. It denies the name of duty to many offices that are called duties. But if I can discharge its debts it enables me to dispense with the popular code. If any one imagines that this law is lax, let him keep its commandment one day.

People think that rejecting popular standards means rejecting all standards and all moral law. And the bold sensualist will use the name of philosophy to make his crimes seem respectable. But the law of conscience remains. There are two confessionals, and we must receive absolution in one or the other. You may complete your duties by clearing yourself in the direct or the indirect way. Consider whether you have met your obligations to father, mother, cousin, neighbor, town, cat, and dog. Consider whether any of them can reproach you. But I may also disregard this indirect standard and absolve myself in my own eyes. I have my own strict demands and a complete sphere of duty. This standard refuses to call many tasks duties, though others call them duties. But if I can meet its demands, I can dispense with the popular code. If anyone imagines that this law is lenient, let him obey it for one day.

And truly it demands something godlike in him who has cast off the common motives of humanity and has ventured to trust himself for a taskmaster. High be his heart, faithful his will, clear his sight, that he may in good earnest be doctrine, society, law, to himself, that a simple purpose may be to him as strong as iron necessity is to others!

Truly, a man needs something godlike in him to cast off the usual human motives and dare to rely on himself for discipline. May his heart be noble, his will steadfast, and his vision clear. Then he may truly be his own teacher, society, and law. And a simple purpose may be as strong for him as iron necessity is for others!

If any man consider the present aspects of what is called by distinction society, he will see the need of these ethics. The sinew and heart of man seem to be drawn out, and we are become timorous, desponding whimperers. We are afraid of truth, afraid of fortune, afraid of death and afraid of each other. Our age yields no great and perfect persons. We want men and women who shall renovate life and our social state, but we see that most natures are insolvent, cannot satisfy their own wants, have an ambition out of all proportion to their practical force and do lean and beg day and night continually. Our housekeeping is mendicant, our arts, our occupations, our marriages, our religion we have not chosen, but society has chosen for us. We are parlor soldiers. We shun the rugged battle of fate, where strength is born.

If anyone considers the present state of what we call society, they will see the need for these principles. People seem to have lost their strength and courage. We have become timid, discouraged whiners. We are afraid of truth, afraid of fortune, afraid of death, and afraid of each other. Our age produces no great and complete people. We need men and women who will renew life and our social order. But we see that most people lack the resources to meet their own needs. Their ambitions far exceed their practical abilities, and they constantly depend on others and beg, day and night. Our households depend on charity. We have not chosen our arts, our occupations, our marriages, or our religion. Society has chosen them for us. We are parlor soldiers. We avoid the harsh battle with fate, where strength is born.

If our young men miscarry in their first enterprises they lose all heart. If the young merchant fails, men say he is ruined. If the finest genius studies at one of our colleges and is not installed in an office within one year afterwards in the cities or suburbs of Boston or New York, it seems to his friends and to himself that he is right in being disheartened and in complaining the rest of his life. A sturdy lad from New Hampshire or Vermont, who in turn tries all the professions, who teams it, farms it, peddles, keeps a school, preaches, edits a newspaper, goes to Congress, buys a township, and so forth, in successive years, and always like a cat falls on his feet, is worth a hundred of these city dolls. He walks abreast with his days and feels no shame in not ‘studying a profession,’ for he does not postpone his life, but lives already. He has not one chance, but a hundred chances. Let a Stoic open the resources of man and tell men they are not leaning willows, but can and must detach themselves; that with the exercise of self-trust, new powers shall appear; that a man is the word made flesh, born to shed healing to the nations; that he should be ashamed of our compassion, and that the moment he acts from himself, tossing the laws, the books, idolatries and customs out of the window, we pity him no more but thank and revere him;—and that teacher shall restore the life of man to splendor and make his name dear to all history.

If our young men fail in their first ventures, they lose all heart. If a young merchant fails, people say he is ruined. Even if a brilliant young man goes to one of our colleges, he may not find a position in Boston or New York, or their suburbs, within a year of graduating. Then both he and his friends think he has every right to be discouraged and to complain for the rest of his life. A sturdy young man from New Hampshire or Vermont may try every profession in turn. In successive years, he drives a team, farms, peddles, runs a school, preaches, edits a newspaper, serves in Congress, buys a township, and so on. He always lands on his feet like a cat, and he is worth a hundred of these city dolls. He keeps pace with his times and feels no shame in not ‘studying a profession.’ For he does not put off his life. He is already living it. He has not one chance, but a hundred. Let a Stoic reveal the resources people have within themselves. Let him tell them they are not leaning willows, but can and must stand on their own. Let him say that new powers will appear when they trust themselves. Let him say that a person is the word made flesh, born to bring healing to the nations. Let him say that a person should be ashamed of our pity. The moment someone acts from within himself, throwing laws, books, idolatries, and customs out the window, we no longer pity him. Instead, we thank and revere him. Such a teacher will restore splendor to human life and make his name beloved throughout history.

It is easy to see that a greater self-reliance must work a revolution in all the offices and relations of men; in their religion; in their education; in their pursuits; their modes of living; their association; in their property; in their speculative views.

It is easy to see that greater self-reliance would revolutionize all human roles and relationships. It would transform religion, education, pursuits, ways of living, social life, property, and views about abstract ideas.

1. In what prayers do men allow themselves! That which they call a holy office is not so much as brave and manly. Prayer looks abroad and asks for some foreign addition to come through some foreign virtue, and loses itself in endless mazes of natural and supernatural, and mediatorial and miraculous. Prayer that craves a particular commodity, any thing less than all good, is vicious. Prayer is the contemplation of the facts of life from the highest point of view. It is the soliloquy of a beholding and jubilant soul. It is the spirit of God pronouncing his works good. But prayer as a means to effect a private end is meanness and theft. It supposes dualism and not unity in nature and consciousness. As soon as the man is at one with God, he will not beg. He will then see prayer in all action. The prayer of the farmer kneeling in his field to weed it, the prayer of the rower kneeling with the stroke of his oar, are true prayers heard throughout nature, though for cheap ends. Caratach, in Fletcher’s Bonduca, when admonished to inquire the mind of the god Audate, replies,—

1. What prayers men allow themselves! What they call a holy practice is not even brave and manly. Prayer looks outward and asks for something to be added from outside, through some power outside itself. It loses itself in endless mazes of the natural and supernatural, the mediating and the miraculous. Prayer that asks for a particular thing, anything less than all good, is wrong. Prayer is the contemplation of life’s facts from the highest point of view. It is the inner speech of a soul that observes and rejoices. It is the spirit of God declaring his works good. But prayer as a means to achieve a private goal is petty and thieving. It assumes division, not unity, in nature and consciousness. As soon as a man is one with God, he will not beg. He will then see prayer in every action. The farmer kneeling in his field to weed it offers a true prayer. So does the rower kneeling as he pulls his oar. These prayers are heard throughout nature, though they serve humble purposes. In Fletcher’s Bonduca, Caratach is urged to ask the god Audate what he thinks. Caratach replies:

Another sort of false prayers are our regrets. Discontent is the want of self-reliance: it is infirmity of will. Regret calamities if you can thereby help the sufferer; if not, attend your own work and already the evil begins to be repaired. Our sympathy is just as base. We come to them who weep foolishly and sit down and cry for company, instead of imparting to them truth and health in rough electric shocks, putting them once more in communication with their own reason. The secret of fortune is joy in our hands. Welcome evermore to gods and men is the self-helping man. For him all doors are flung wide; him all tongues greet, all honors crown, all eyes follow with desire. Our love goes out to him and embraces him because he did not need it. We solicitously and apologetically caress and celebrate him because he held on his way and scorned our disapprobation. The gods love him because men hated him. “To the persevering mortal,” said Zoroaster, “the blessed Immortals are swift.”

Our regrets are another kind of false prayer. Discontent is a lack of self-reliance. It shows a weak will. Regret disasters if doing so can help the sufferer. If not, attend to your own work, and the damage already begins to be repaired. Our sympathy is just as worthless. We go to those who weep foolishly and sit down and cry with them. Instead, we should give them truth and health in rough electric shocks, reconnecting them with their own reason. The secret of fortune is joy in our hands. The self-reliant man is always welcome to gods and men. All doors are thrown open for him. All tongues greet him, all honors crown him, and all eyes follow him with desire. Our love reaches out and embraces him because he did not need it. We fuss over him and praise him apologetically because he stayed his course and scorned our disapproval. The gods love him because men hated him. “To the persevering mortal,” said Zoroaster, “the blessed Immortals are swift.”

As men’s prayers are a disease of the will, so are their creeds a disease of the intellect. They say with those foolish Israelites, ‘Let not God speak to us, lest we die. Speak thou, speak any man with us, and we will obey.’ Everywhere I am hindered of meeting God in my brother, because he has shut his own temple doors and recites fables merely of his brother’s, or his brother’s brother’s God. Every new mind is a new classification. If it prove a mind of uncommon activity and power, a Locke, a Lavoisier, a Hutton, a Bentham, a Fourier, it imposes its classification on other men, and lo! a new system. In proportion to the depth of the thought, and so to the number of the objects it touches and brings within reach of the pupil, is his complacency. But chiefly is this apparent in creeds and churches, which are also classifications of some powerful mind acting on the elemental thought of duty, and man’s relation to the Highest. Such is Calvinism, Quakerism, Swedenborgism. The pupil takes the same delight in subordinating every thing to the new terminology as a girl who has just learned botany in seeing a new earth and new seasons thereby. It will happen for a time that the pupil will find his intellectual power has grown by the study of his master’s mind. But in all unbalanced minds the classification is idolized, passes for the end and not for a speedily exhaustible means, so that the walls of the system blend to their eye in the remote horizon with the walls of the universe; the luminaries of heaven seem to them hung on the arch their master built. They cannot imagine how you aliens have any right to see,—how you can see; ‘It must be somehow that you stole the light from us.’ They do not yet perceive that light, unsystematic, indomitable, will break into any cabin, even into theirs. Let them chirp awhile and call it their own. If they are honest and do well, presently their neat new pinfold will be too strait and low, will crack, will lean, will rot and vanish, and the immortal light, all young and joyful, million-orbed, million-colored, will beam over the universe as on the first morning.

As people’s prayers are a disease of the will, so their creeds are a disease of the intellect. They say, like those foolish Israelites, ‘Do not let God speak to us, or we will die. You speak to us, let any man speak to us, and we will obey.’ Everywhere I am prevented from meeting God in my brother. He has shut the doors of his own temple. He merely repeats fables about his brother’s God, or his brother’s brother’s God. Every new mind brings a new way of classifying things. If a mind has unusual activity and power, it imposes its classifications on others. Think of a Locke, a Lavoisier, a Hutton, a Bentham, or a Fourier. And look, there is a new system. The deeper the thought, the more things it touches and brings within the pupil’s reach. And the more things it brings within reach, the more pleased the pupil is. But this is most apparent in creeds and churches. They too are classifications made by a powerful mind. They deal with the basic ideas of duty and humanity’s relationship to the Highest. Such are Calvinism, Quakerism, and Swedenborgism. The pupil takes delight in fitting everything into the new terminology. The pupil is like a girl who has just learned botany and sees a new earth and new seasons through it. For a time, the pupil will find that studying the master’s mind has increased his intellectual power. But all unbalanced minds idolize the classification. They mistake it for an end, rather than a means whose usefulness is quickly exhausted. To their eyes, the walls of the system merge with the walls of the universe on the distant horizon. The lights of heaven seem to them to hang from the arch their master built. They cannot imagine how you outsiders have any right to see, or how you can see at all. ‘You must somehow have stolen the light from us.’ They do not yet see that light, unsystematic and untamable, will break into any cabin, even theirs. Let them chirp for a while and call the light their own. If they are honest and do well, their neat new pen will soon be too narrow and low. It will crack, lean, rot, and vanish. And the immortal light, ever young and joyful, with a million orbs and a million colors, will shine over the universe as it did on the first morning.

2. It is for want of self-culture that the superstition of Travelling, whose idols are Italy, England, Egypt, retains its fascination for all educated Americans. They who made England, Italy, or Greece venerable in the imagination did so by sticking fast where they were, like an axis of the earth. In manly hours we feel that duty is our place. The soul is no traveller; the wise man stays at home, and when his necessities, his duties, on any occasion call him from his house, or into foreign lands, he is at home still and shall make men sensible by the expression of his countenance that he goes, the missionary of wisdom and virtue, and visits cities and men like a sovereign and not like an interloper or a valet.

2. A lack of self-cultivation keeps the superstition of travel fascinating to all educated Americans. Its idols are Italy, England, and Egypt. The people who made England, Italy, or Greece seem worthy of reverence did so by staying firmly where they were, like the axis of the earth. In our strongest moments, we feel that our place is wherever duty calls us. The soul does not travel. The wise man stays at home. Even when necessity or duty calls him away from his house or into foreign lands, he is still at home. His expression will show others that he travels as a missionary of wisdom and virtue. He visits cities and people like a sovereign, not like an intruder or a servant.

I have no churlish objection to the circumnavigation of the globe for the purposes of art, of study, and benevolence, so that the man is first domesticated, or does not go abroad with the hope of finding somewhat greater than he knows. He who travels to be amused, or to get somewhat which he does not carry, travels away from himself, and grows old even in youth among old things. In Thebes, in Palmyra, his will and mind have become old and dilapidated as they. He carries ruins to ruins.

I have no petty objection to traveling around the world for art, study, or charity. But a person should first be at home with himself, or at least not go abroad hoping to find something greater than he knows. A person who travels for amusement, or to get something he does not carry within himself, travels away from himself. Even in youth, he grows old among old things. In Thebes or Palmyra, his will and mind have grown as old and ruined as those places. He carries ruins to ruins.

Travelling is a fool’s paradise. Our first journeys discover to us the indifference of places. At home I dream that at Naples, at Rome, I can be intoxicated with beauty and lose my sadness. I pack my trunk, embrace my friends, embark on the sea and at last wake up in Naples, and there beside me is the stern fact, the sad self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled from. I seek the Vatican and the palaces. I affect to be intoxicated with sights and suggestions, but I am not intoxicated. My giant goes with me wherever I go.

Travel is a fool’s paradise. Our first journeys show us that places make no difference. At home, I dream that Naples or Rome will overwhelm me with beauty and make me forget my sadness. I pack my suitcase, embrace my friends, and sail away. At last, I wake up in Naples. There beside me is the harsh truth: the same sad self I fled, unchanged and unrelenting. I visit the Vatican and the palaces. I pretend to be overwhelmed by the sights and the ideas they inspire, but I am not. My giant goes with me wherever I go.

3. But the rage of travelling is a symptom of a deeper unsoundness affecting the whole intellectual action. The intellect is vagabond, and our system of education fosters restlessness. Our minds travel when our bodies are forced to stay at home. We imitate; and what is imitation but the travelling of the mind? Our houses are built with foreign taste; our shelves are garnished with foreign ornaments; our opinions, our tastes, our faculties, lean, and follow the Past and the Distant. The soul created the arts wherever they have flourished. It was in his own mind that the artist sought his model. It was an application of his own thought to the thing to be done and the conditions to be observed. And why need we copy the Doric or the Gothic model? Beauty, convenience, grandeur of thought and quaint expression are as near to us as to any, and if the American artist will study with hope and love the precise thing to be done by him, considering the climate, the soil, the length of the day, the wants of the people, the habit and form of the government, he will create a house in which all these will find themselves fitted, and taste and sentiment will be satisfied also.

3. But the craze for travel is a sign of a deeper problem affecting all our thinking. Our minds wander, and our education system encourages restlessness. Our minds travel even when our bodies are forced to stay home. We imitate others, and what is imitation but travel of the mind? Our houses are built in foreign styles. Our shelves are decorated with foreign ornaments. Our opinions, tastes, and abilities lean toward and follow what is past and distant. The soul created the arts wherever they have flourished. The artist looked within his own mind for his model. He applied his own thought to the work at hand and the conditions he had to observe. So why should we copy the Doric or Gothic style? Beauty, usefulness, grandeur of thought, and distinctive expression are as close to us as to anyone. Suppose the American artist studies his exact task with hope and love. Suppose he considers the climate, the soil, the length of the day, the people's needs, and the government's practices and form. He will then create a house suited to all these conditions. The house will also satisfy our taste and feelings.

Insist on yourself; never imitate. Your own gift you can present every moment with the cumulative force of a whole life’s cultivation; but of the adopted talent of another you have only an extemporaneous half possession. That which each can do best, none but his Maker can teach him. No man yet knows what it is, nor can, till that person has exhibited it. Where is the master who could have taught Shakspeare? Where is the master who could have instructed Franklin, or Washington, or Bacon, or Newton? Every great man is a unique. The Scipionism of Scipio is precisely that part he could not borrow. Shakspeare will never be made by the study of Shakspeare. Do that which is assigned you, and you cannot hope too much or dare too much. There is at this moment for you an utterance brave and grand as that of the colossal chisel of Phidias, or trowel of the Egyptians, or the pen of Moses or Dante, but different from all these. Not possibly will the soul, all rich, all eloquent, with thousand-cloven tongue, deign to repeat itself; but if you can hear what these patriarchs say, surely you can reply to them in the same pitch of voice; for the ear and the tongue are two organs of one nature. Abide in the simple and noble regions of thy life, obey thy heart and thou shalt reproduce the Foreworld again.

Be yourself. Never imitate. You can offer your own gift at any moment with the accumulated power of a lifetime of practice. But when you adopt someone else’s talent, you possess it only partially and must improvise. Only a person’s Maker can teach them what they do best. No one yet knows what that is, or can know until the person shows it. Where is the master who could have taught Shakspeare? Where is the master who could have taught Franklin, or Washington, or Bacon, or Newton? Every great man is unique. The Scipionism of Scipio is precisely the part of him he could not borrow. Studying Shakspeare will never produce another Shakspeare. Do what is assigned to you, and you cannot hope or dare too much. Even now, you can express yourself as bravely and grandly as Phidias with his mighty chisel, or the Egyptians with their trowels, or Moses or Dante with their pens. But your expression will be different from all of theirs. The soul, so rich and eloquent, speaking in a thousand voices, would never lower itself to repeat itself. But if you can hear what these patriarchs say, surely you can answer them in an equally powerful voice. The ear and the tongue are two organs of the same nature. Stay in the simple and noble regions of your life. Obey your heart, and you will bring the Foreworld to life again.

4. As our Religion, our Education, our Art look abroad, so does our spirit of society. All men plume themselves on the improvement of society, and no man improves.

4. Just as our religion, education, and art look abroad, so does our social life. All men pride themselves on society's progress, but no man improves himself.

Society never advances. It recedes as fast on one side as it gains on the other. It undergoes continual changes; it is barbarous, it is civilized, it is christianized, it is rich, it is scientific; but this change is not amelioration. For every thing that is given something is taken. Society acquires new arts and loses old instincts. What a contrast between the well-clad, reading, writing, thinking American, with a watch, a pencil and a bill of exchange in his pocket, and the naked New Zealander, whose property is a club, a spear, a mat and an undivided twentieth of a shed to sleep under! But compare the health of the two men and you shall see that the white man has lost his aboriginal strength. If the traveller tell us truly, strike the savage with a broad axe and in a day or two the flesh shall unite and heal as if you struck the blow into soft pitch, and the same blow shall send the white to his grave.

Society never advances. It falls back on one side as fast as it gains on the other. It changes constantly. It becomes barbaric, civilized, Christian, rich, or scientific, but these changes are not improvements. For everything society gains, something is taken away. Society acquires new skills and loses old instincts. Consider the contrast between two men. One is a well-dressed American who reads, writes, and thinks. He carries a watch, a pencil, and a bill of exchange in his pocket. The other is a naked New Zealander. He owns a club, a spear, a mat, and an undivided one-twentieth share of a shed to sleep under. But compare their health, and you will see that the white man has lost his original strength. If the traveler tells the truth, a blow from a broad axe will heal in the New Zealander in a day or two. His flesh will come together and heal as if the axe had struck soft pitch. The same blow will send the white man to his grave.

The civilized man has built a coach, but has lost the use of his feet. He is supported on crutches, but lacks so much support of muscle. He has a fine Geneva watch, but he fails of the skill to tell the hour by the sun. A Greenwich nautical almanac he has, and so being sure of the information when he wants it, the man in the street does not know a star in the sky. The solstice he does not observe; the equinox he knows as little; and the whole bright calendar of the year is without a dial in his mind. His note-books impair his memory; his libraries overload his wit; the insurance-office increases the number of accidents; and it may be a question whether machinery does not encumber; whether we have not lost by refinement some energy, by a Christianity entrenched in establishments and forms some vigor of wild virtue. For every Stoic was a Stoic; but in Christendom where is the Christian?

Civilized man has built a coach, but he has lost the use of his feet. Crutches support him, but he lacks the muscle to support himself. He has a fine Geneva watch, but he cannot tell the time by the sun. He has a Greenwich nautical almanac, so he can find the information when he needs it. As a result, the man in the street cannot recognize a single star in the sky. He does not observe the solstice, and he knows just as little about the equinox. The whole bright calendar of the year has no dial in his mind. His notebooks weaken his memory, and his libraries overload his mind. Insurance offices increase the number of accidents. We may also ask whether machinery is more of a burden than a help. Have we lost some energy through refinement? Has Christianity, entrenched in institutions and forms, cost us some of the vigor of untamed virtue? For every Stoic was a Stoic, but where in Christendom is the Christian?

There is no more deviation in the moral standard than in the standard of height or bulk. No greater men are now than ever were. A singular equality may be observed between the great men of the first and of the last ages; nor can all the science, art, religion, and philosophy of the nineteenth century avail to educate greater men than Plutarch’s heroes, three or four and twenty centuries ago. Not in time is the race progressive. Phocion, Socrates, Anaxagoras, Diogenes, are great men, but they leave no class. He who is really of their class will not be called by their name, but will be his own man, and in his turn the founder of a sect. The arts and inventions of each period are only its costume and do not invigorate men. The harm of the improved machinery may compensate its good. Hudson and Behring accomplished so much in their fishing-boats as to astonish Parry and Franklin, whose equipment exhausted the resources of science and art. Galileo, with an opera-glass, discovered a more splendid series of celestial phenomena than any one since. Columbus found the New World in an undecked boat. It is curious to see the periodical disuse and perishing of means and machinery which were introduced with loud laudation a few years or centuries before. The great genius returns to essential man. We reckoned the improvements of the art of war among the triumphs of science, and yet Napoleon conquered Europe by the bivouac, which consisted of falling back on naked valor and disencumbering it of all aids. The Emperor held it impossible to make a perfect army, says Las Cases, “without abolishing our arms, magazines, commissaries and carriages, until, in imitation of the Roman custom, the soldier should receive his supply of corn, grind it in his hand-mill, and bake his bread himself.”

The moral standard varies no more than the standard of height or size. No one today is greater than the great men of the past. The great men of the earliest and latest ages are remarkably equal. All the science, art, religion, and philosophy of the nineteenth century cannot produce greater men than Plutarch’s heroes, who lived twenty-three or twenty-four centuries ago. The human race does not progress over time. Phocion, Socrates, Anaxagoras, and Diogenes are great men, but they leave no class of men like themselves. Anyone truly their equal will not be known by their names. He will be his own man and, in turn, the founder of a school of thought. The arts and inventions of each period are only its costume. They do not make men stronger. The harm done by improved machinery may cancel out its benefits. Hudson and Behring achieved so much in their fishing boats that they amazed Parry and Franklin. Parry and Franklin’s equipment had drawn on every resource of science and art. With an opera glass, Galileo discovered a more splendid series of celestial phenomena than anyone has discovered since. Columbus found the New World in a boat without a deck. It is curious to see how often tools and machines fall out of use and disappear. They may have been introduced with loud praise only a few years or centuries before. Great genius returns to what is essential in human beings. We counted advances in the art of war among the triumphs of science. Yet Napoleon conquered Europe by using the bivouac. This meant relying on bare courage and freeing it from all aids. According to Las Cases, the Emperor thought it impossible to create a perfect army “without abolishing our arms, magazines, commissaries and carriages, until, in imitation of the Roman custom, the soldier should receive his supply of corn, grind it in his hand-mill, and bake his bread himself.”

Society is a wave. The wave moves onward, but the water of which it is composed does not. The same particle does not rise from the valley to the ridge. Its unity is only phenomenal. The persons who make up a nation to-day, next year die, and their experience with them.

Society is a wave. The wave moves forward, but the water in it does not. The same particle of water does not rise from the trough to the crest. The wave only appears to be a single, continuous thing. The people who make up a nation today die the next year, and their experience dies with them.

And so the reliance on Property, including the reliance on governments which protect it, is the want of self-reliance. Men have looked away from themselves and at things so long that they have come to esteem the religious, learned and civil institutions as guards of property, and they deprecate assaults on these, because they feel them to be assaults on property. They measure their esteem of each other by what each has, and not by what each is. But a cultivated man becomes ashamed of his property, out of new respect for his nature. Especially he hates what he has if he see that it is accidental,—came to him by inheritance, or gift, or crime; then he feels that it is not having; it does not belong to him, has no root in him and merely lies there because no revolution or no robber takes it away. But that which a man is, does always by necessity acquire, and what the man acquires is living property, which does not wait the beck of rulers, or mobs, or revolutions, or fire, or storm, or bankruptcies, but perpetually renews itself wherever the man breathes. “Thy lot or portion of life,” said the Caliph Ali, “is seeking after thee; therefore be at rest from seeking after it.” Our dependence on these foreign goods leads us to our slavish respect for numbers. The political parties meet in numerous conventions; the greater the concourse and with each new uproar of announcement, The delegation from Essex! The Democrats from New Hampshire! The Whigs of Maine! the young patriot feels himself stronger than before by a new thousand of eyes and arms. In like manner the reformers summon conventions and vote and resolve in multitude. Not so, O friends! will the God deign to enter and inhabit you, but by a method precisely the reverse. It is only as a man puts off all foreign support and stands alone that I see him to be strong and to prevail. He is weaker by every recruit to his banner. Is not a man better than a town? Ask nothing of men, and, in the endless mutation, thou only firm column must presently appear the upholder of all that surrounds thee. He who knows that power is inborn, that he is weak because he has looked for good out of him and elsewhere, and so perceiving, throws himself unhesitatingly on his thought, instantly rights himself, stands in the erect position, commands his limbs, works miracles; just as a man who stands on his feet is stronger than a man who stands on his head.

And so reliance on property, including reliance on governments that protect it, is a lack of self-reliance. People have looked away from themselves and toward things for so long that they value religious, educational, and civil institutions as protectors of property. They oppose attacks on these institutions because they feel that such attacks threaten property. They judge one another by what each person has, not by what each person is. But a cultivated person comes to feel ashamed of his property because he has gained a new respect for his own nature. He especially hates what he has if he sees that it came to him by chance, through inheritance, a gift, or a crime. Then he feels that he does not truly possess it. It does not belong to him or have roots in him. It merely lies there because no revolution or robber has taken it away. But what a person is must always acquire something. What he acquires in this way is living property. It does not depend on the will of rulers, mobs, or revolutions. It does not depend on escaping fire, storms, or bankruptcy. It continually renews itself wherever he lives and breathes. “Your share of life,” said the Caliph Ali, “is seeking you. So stop searching for it and be at rest.” Our dependence on these external goods leads us to a slavish respect for numbers. Political parties gather in large conventions. The larger the crowd and the more often new arrivals are loudly announced, the stronger the young patriot feels. “The delegation from Essex! The Democrats from New Hampshire! The Whigs of Maine!” Each new thousand brings him a thousand more eyes and arms. In the same way, reformers call conventions and gather in large numbers to vote and pass resolutions. But, friends, this is not how God will choose to enter you and dwell within you. His way is precisely the opposite. Only when a person gives up all outside support and stands alone do I see that person as strong and victorious. Every recruit to his cause makes him weaker. Is not one person better than a town? Ask nothing of others. Then, amid endless change, you alone will stand firm, like a column. You will soon be seen as the support of everything around you. A person may understand that power is inborn and that he is weak because he has looked for good outside himself, in other places. If he then trusts his own thought without hesitation, he immediately sets himself right. He stands upright, commands his limbs, and works miracles. He is stronger, just as a person standing on his feet is stronger than one standing on his head.

So use all that is called Fortune. Most men gamble with her, and gain all, and lose all, as her wheel rolls. But do thou leave as unlawful these winnings, and deal with Cause and Effect, the chancellors of God. In the Will work and acquire, and thou hast chained the wheel of Chance, and shalt sit hereafter out of fear from her rotations. A political victory, a rise of rents, the recovery of your sick or the return of your absent friend, or some other favorable event raises your spirits, and you think good days are preparing for you. Do not believe it. Nothing can bring you peace but yourself. Nothing can bring you peace but the triumph of principles.

Use everything people call Fortune in this way. Most people gamble with Fortune, gaining all and losing all as her wheel turns. But leave these winnings alone as unlawful. Deal instead with Cause and Effect, God’s chancellors. Work and gain through your will, and you will have chained the wheel of Chance. Afterward, you can live without fearing its turns. A political victory, a rise in rents, the recovery of someone close to you who was sick, or the return of an absent friend raises your spirits. Some other favorable event may do the same. You think good days are coming. Do not believe it. Nothing can bring you peace but yourself. Nothing can bring you peace but the triumph of principles.