Compensation

Ever since I was a boy I have wished to write a discourse on Compensation; for it seemed to me when very young that on this subject life was ahead of theology and the people knew more than the preachers taught. The documents too from which the doctrine is to be drawn, charmed my fancy by their endless variety, and lay always before me, even in sleep; for they are the tools in our hands, the bread in our basket, the transactions of the street, the farm and the dwelling-house; greetings, relations, debts and credits, the influence of character, the nature and endowment of all men. It seemed to me also that in it might be shown men a ray of divinity, the present action of the soul of this world, clean from all vestige of tradition; and so the heart of man might be bathed by an inundation of eternal love, conversing with that which he knows was always and always must be, because it really is now. It appeared moreover that if this doctrine could be stated in terms with any resemblance to those bright intuitions in which this truth is sometimes revealed to us, it would be a star in many dark hours and crooked passages in our journey, that would not suffer us to lose our way.

Ever since I was a boy, I have wanted to write about Compensation. Even when I was very young, it seemed to me that life was ahead of theology on this subject. People knew more than preachers taught. The evidence for the doctrine also delighted me with its endless variety. It was always before me, even in sleep. It was there in the tools in our hands, the bread in our basket, and the business of the street, farm, and home. It was there in greetings, relationships, debts and credits, the influence of character, and the nature and gifts of all people. It also seemed to me that this doctrine could show people a ray of divinity. It could reveal the soul of the world at work in the present, free from every trace of tradition. And so the human heart could be flooded with eternal love. It could be in communion with what it knows has always been and must always be, because it truly is now. The truth of this doctrine is sometimes revealed to us in moments of brilliant insight. I also thought that if the doctrine could be expressed in words resembling those insights, it would be a guiding star. In many dark hours and winding passages of our journey, it would keep us from losing our way.

I was lately confirmed in these desires by hearing a sermon at church. The preacher, a man esteemed for his orthodoxy, unfolded in the ordinary manner the doctrine of the Last Judgment. He assumed that judgment is not executed in this world; that the wicked are successful; that the good are miserable; and then urged from reason and from Scripture a compensation to be made to both parties in the next life. No offence appeared to be taken by the congregation at this doctrine. As far as I could observe when the meeting broke up they separated without remark on the sermon.

A recent church sermon strengthened these desires. The preacher was respected for his orthodox beliefs. He presented the doctrine of the Last Judgment in the usual way. He assumed that judgment does not happen in this world, that the wicked succeed, and that the good suffer. He then argued from reason and Scripture that both would receive their due in the next life. No one in the congregation seemed offended by this doctrine. As far as I could see, when the service ended, people left without commenting on the sermon.

Yet what was the import of this teaching? What did the preacher mean by saying that the good are miserable in the present life? Was it that houses and lands, offices, wine, horses, dress, luxury, are had by unprincipled men, whilst the saints are poor and despised; and that a compensation is to be made to these last hereafter, by giving them the like gratifications another day,—bank-stock and doubloons, venison and champagne? This must be the compensation intended; for what else? Is it that they are to have leave to pray and praise? to love and serve men? Why, that they can do now. The legitimate inference the disciple would draw was,—‘We are to have such a good time as the sinners have now’;—or, to push it to its extreme import,—‘You sin now; we shall sin by and by; we would sin now, if we could; not being successful, we expect our revenge to-morrow.’

Yet what was the point of this teaching? What did the preacher mean by saying that good people are miserable in this life? Did he mean that unprincipled people have houses, land, positions of power, wine, horses, fine clothes, and luxuries, while the saints are poor and despised? And did he mean that the saints would be compensated in the next life with the same pleasures: bank stock and gold coins, venison and champagne? This must be the compensation he meant. What else could it be? Did he mean that the saints would be allowed to pray and praise? To love and serve others? Why, they can do that now. The reasonable conclusion a follower would draw was, ‘We are going to have such a good time as sinners have now.’ Or, to take the meaning to its extreme: ‘You sin now. We will sin later. We would sin now if we could. Since we have not succeeded, we expect our revenge tomorrow.’

The fallacy lay in the immense concession that the bad are successful; that justice is not done now. The blindness of the preacher consisted in deferring to the base estimate of the market of what constitutes a manly success, instead of confronting and convicting the world from the truth; announcing the presence of the soul; the omnipotence of the will; and so establishing the standard of good and ill, of success and falsehood.

The error lay in the enormous concession that bad people succeed and that justice is not done now. The preacher was blind because he accepted the marketplace’s shallow measure of what counts as manly success. Instead, he should have confronted the world with the truth and exposed its errors. He should have proclaimed the presence of the soul and the unlimited power of the will. In this way, he could have established the standard for good and evil, for true success and false success.

I find a similar base tone in the popular religious works of the day and the same doctrines assumed by the literary men when occasionally they treat the related topics. I think that our popular theology has gained in decorum, and not in principle, over the superstitions it has displaced. But men are better than their theology. Their daily life gives it the lie. Every ingenuous and aspiring soul leaves the doctrine behind him in his own experience, and all men feel sometimes the falsehood which they cannot demonstrate. For men are wiser than they know. That which they hear in schools and pulpits without afterthought, if said in conversation would probably be questioned in silence. If a man dogmatize in a mixed company on Providence and the divine laws, he is answered by a silence which conveys well enough to an observer the dissatisfaction of the hearer, but his incapacity to make his own statement.

I find a similar low tone in the popular religious works of the day. Literary writers assume the same doctrines when they occasionally discuss related subjects. I think our popular theology has gained in respectability, but not in principle, over the superstitions it has replaced. But people are better than their theology. Their daily lives contradict it. Every sincere and aspiring soul leaves the doctrine behind through personal experience. And everyone sometimes feels that the doctrine is false, though they cannot prove it. For people are wiser than they know. They accept what they hear in schools and pulpits without a second thought. But if the same things were said in conversation, they would probably question them silently. If a man speaks dogmatically about Providence and divine laws in mixed company, he is met with silence. An observer can tell from the silence that the listeners are dissatisfied, but unable to express their own views.

I shall attempt in this and the following chapter to record some facts that indicate the path of the law of Compensation; happy beyond my expectation if I shall truly draw the smallest arc of this circle.

In this chapter and the next, I will try to record some facts that show the path of the law of Compensation. I would be happier than I expect if I could accurately draw even the smallest arc of this circle.

Polarity, or action and reaction, we meet in every part of nature; in darkness and light; in heat and cold; in the ebb and flow of waters; in male and female; in the inspiration and expiration of plants and animals; in the equation of quantity and quality in the fluids of the animal body; in the systole and diastole of the heart; in the undulations of fluids, and of sound; in the centrifugal and centripetal gravity; in electricity, galvanism, and chemical affinity. Superinduce magnetism at one end of a needle, the opposite magnetism takes place at the other end. If the south attracts, the north repels. To empty here, you must condense there. An inevitable dualism bisects nature, so that each thing is a half, and suggests another thing to make it whole; as, spirit, matter; man, woman; odd, even; subjective, objective; in, out; upper, under; motion, rest; yea, nay.

We find polarity, or action and reaction, throughout nature. We see it in darkness and light, heat and cold, the ebb and flow of water, and male and female. We see it in plants and animals breathing in and out, and in the balance of quantity and quality in animal body fluids. We see it in the contraction and expansion of the heart, in waves of fluids and sound, and in centrifugal and centripetal gravity. We see it in electricity, galvanism, and chemical affinity. Magnetize one end of a needle, and the opposite magnetism appears at the other end. If the south attracts, the north repels. To empty one place, you must condense matter in another. An unavoidable duality divides nature, so that each thing is a half and suggests another thing to make it whole. Examples include spirit and matter, man and woman, odd and even, subjective and objective, in and out, upper and lower, motion and rest, yes and no.

Whilst the world is thus dual, so is every one of its parts. The entire system of things gets represented in every particle. There is somewhat that resembles the ebb and flow of the sea, day and night, man and woman, in a single needle of the pine, in a kernel of corn, in each individual of every animal tribe. The reaction, so grand in the elements, is repeated within these small boundaries. For example, in the animal kingdom the physiologist has observed that no creatures are favorites, but a certain compensation balances every gift and every defect. A surplusage given to one part is paid out of a reduction from another part of the same creature. If the head and neck are enlarged, the trunk and extremities are cut short.

Just as the world has two sides, so does every part of it. The entire system of things is represented in every particle. Something like the ebb and flow of the sea, day and night, and man and woman exists in a single pine needle. It exists in a kernel of corn and in each individual of every animal group. The opposing forces so grandly displayed in the elements are repeated within these small limits. For example, physiologists have observed that no creatures in the animal kingdom are favored. Instead, a certain compensation balances every gift and every defect. An excess given to one part of a creature comes at the expense of another part. If the head and neck are enlarged, the body and limbs are shortened.

The theory of the mechanic forces is another example. What we gain in power is lost in time, and the converse. The periodic or compensating errors of the planets is another instance. The influences of climate and soil in political history are another. The cold climate invigorates. The barren soil does not breed fevers, crocodiles, tigers or scorpions.

The theory of mechanical forces is another example. What we gain in power, we lose in time, and vice versa. The periodic or compensating errors of the planets are another example. So are the effects of climate and soil on political history. A cold climate strengthens people. Barren soil does not breed fevers, crocodiles, tigers, or scorpions.

The same dualism underlies the nature and condition of man. Every excess causes a defect; every defect an excess. Every sweet hath its sour; every evil its good. Every faculty which is a receiver of pleasure has an equal penalty put on its abuse. It is to answer for its moderation with its life. For every grain of wit there is a grain of folly. For every thing you have missed, you have gained something else; and for every thing you gain, you lose something. If riches increase, they are increased that use them. If the gatherer gathers too much, Nature takes out of the man what she puts into his chest; swells the estate, but kills the owner. Nature hates monopolies and exceptions. The waves of the sea do not more speedily seek a level from their loftiest tossing than the varieties of condition tend to equalize themselves. There is always some levelling circumstance that puts down the overbearing, the strong, the rich, the fortunate, substantially on the same ground with all others. Is a man too strong and fierce for society and by temper and position a bad citizen,—a morose ruffian, with a dash of the pirate in him?—Nature sends him a troop of pretty sons and daughters who are getting along in the dame’s classes at the village school, and love and fear for them smooths his grim scowl to courtesy. Thus she contrives to intenerate the granite and felspar, takes the boar out and puts the lamb in and keeps her balance true.

The same duality underlies human nature and the human condition. Every excess causes a deficiency, and every deficiency causes an excess. Every sweet has its sour, and every evil has its good. Every capacity for pleasure carries an equal penalty if abused. The survival of each capacity depends on using it in moderation. For every grain of wit, there is a grain of folly. For everything you have missed, you have gained something else. And for everything you gain, you lose something. If riches increase, those who use them also increase. If a person gathers too much, Nature takes out of the person what she puts into his treasure chest. She enlarges the estate but kills its owner. Nature hates monopolies and exceptions. The waves of the sea seek a level no faster after their highest tosses than differences in condition tend to even themselves out. There is always some equalizing circumstance. It brings the overbearing, the strong, the rich, and the fortunate down to much the same ground as everyone else. Is a man too strong and fierce for society? Do his temper and position make him a bad citizen, a gloomy ruffian with a touch of the pirate in him? Nature sends him a troop of lovely sons and daughters. They are making progress in the village schoolmistress's classes. His love and fear for them soften his grim scowl into courtesy. In this way, Nature manages to soften granite and feldspar. She takes out the boar and puts in the lamb, keeping her balance true.

The farmer imagines power and place are fine things. But the President has paid dear for his White House. It has commonly cost him all his peace, and the best of his manly attributes. To preserve for a short time so conspicuous an appearance before the world, he is content to eat dust before the real masters who stand erect behind the throne. Or, do men desire the more substantial and permanent grandeur of genius? Neither has this an immunity. He who by force of will or of thought is great and overlooks thousands, has the charges of that eminence. With every influx of light comes new danger. Has he light? he must bear witness to the light, and always outrun that sympathy which gives him such keen satisfaction, by his fidelity to new revelations of the incessant soul. He must hate father and mother, wife and child. Has he all that the world loves and admires and covets?—he must cast behind him their admiration, and afflict them by faithfulness to his truth, and become a byword and a hissing.

The farmer thinks power and high office are fine things. But the President has paid dearly for his place in the White House. It has usually cost him all his peace and his best manly qualities. He wants to remain so visibly before the world for a short time. To do so, he is willing to grovel before the real masters who stand upright behind the throne. Or do people desire the greater and more lasting grandeur of genius? Genius offers no immunity either. A person whose will or thought makes him great and puts him above thousands must pay for that high position. Every new insight brings new danger. Does he have insight? He must bear witness to it. He must always move beyond the sympathy that gives him such keen satisfaction. He must do so by remaining faithful to new revelations of the ever active soul. He must hate father and mother, wife and child. Does he have all that the world loves, admires, and covets? He must leave the world’s admiration behind and distress people by staying faithful to his own truth. He must become a figure of ridicule and scorn.

This law writes the laws of cities and nations. It is in vain to build or plot or combine against it. Things refuse to be mismanaged long. Res nolunt diu male administrari. Though no checks to a new evil appear, the checks exist, and will appear. If the government is cruel, the governor’s life is not safe. If you tax too high, the revenue will yield nothing. If you make the criminal code sanguinary, juries will not convict. If the law is too mild, private vengeance comes in. If the government is a terrific democracy, the pressure is resisted by an over-charge of energy in the citizen, and life glows with a fiercer flame. The true life and satisfactions of man seem to elude the utmost rigors or felicities of condition and to establish themselves with great indifferency under all varieties of circumstances. Under all governments the influence of character remains the same,—in Turkey and in New England about alike. Under the primeval despots of Egypt, history honestly confesses that man must have been as free as culture could make him.

This law shapes the laws of cities and nations. It is useless to build, plot, or join forces against this law. Things cannot be badly managed for long. Things refuse to be badly managed for long. Even when no checks on a new evil are visible, they exist and will appear. If the government is cruel, the governor’s life is not safe. If taxes are too high, they will bring in no revenue. If criminal laws prescribe bloody punishments, juries will not convict. If the law is too mild, people take revenge into their own hands. If the government is a terrifying democracy, citizens resist its pressure with an excess of energy. Life burns with a fiercer flame. True human life and satisfaction seem to escape both the harshest and the happiest conditions. They seem to flourish under all kinds of circumstances, largely unaffected by them. Under all governments, character has the same influence. It has much the same influence in Turkey as in New England. Even under the ancient despots of Egypt, history honestly admits that people must have been as free as their culture allowed.

These appearances indicate the fact that the universe is represented in every one of its particles. Every thing in nature contains all the powers of nature. Every thing is made of one hidden stuff; as the naturalist sees one type under every metamorphosis, and regards a horse as a running man, a fish as a swimming man, a bird as a flying man, a tree as a rooted man. Each new form repeats not only the main character of the type, but part for part all the details, all the aims, furtherances, hindrances, energies and whole system of every other. Every occupation, trade, art, transaction, is a compend of the world and a correlative of every other. Each one is an entire emblem of human life; of its good and ill, its trials, its enemies, its course and its end. And each one must somehow accommodate the whole man and recite all his destiny.

These appearances show that the universe is represented in every one of its particles. Everything in nature contains all the powers of nature. Everything is made of the same hidden substance. In the same way, the naturalist sees one underlying form in every transformation. The naturalist regards a horse as a running man, a fish as a swimming man, a bird as a flying man, and a tree as a rooted man. Each new form repeats not only the main character of that underlying form, but also every detail of every other form. Each repeats, part for part, all the aims, helps, obstacles, energies, and the whole system of every other form. Every occupation, trade, art, and transaction is a miniature of the world and relates to every other one. Each is a complete symbol of human life: its good and evil, its trials, its enemies, its course, and its end. And each must somehow make room for the whole person and tell the whole story of human destiny.

The world globes itself in a drop of dew. The microscope cannot find the animalcule which is less perfect for being little. Eyes, ears, taste, smell, motion, resistance, appetite, and organs of reproduction that take hold on eternity,—all find room to consist in the small creature. So do we put our life into every act. The true doctrine of omnipresence is that God reappears with all his parts in every moss and cobweb. The value of the universe contrives to throw itself into every point. If the good is there, so is the evil; if the affinity, so the repulsion; if the force, so the limitation.

The world takes shape in a drop of dew. The microscope cannot find a tiny creature that is less perfect because it is small. Eyes, ears, taste, smell, movement, resistance, appetite, and reproductive organs that reach into eternity all fit within the tiny creature. In the same way, we put our life into every act. The true meaning of omnipresence is that God appears again, complete in every part, in every patch of moss and every cobweb. The value of the universe finds a way to express itself in every point. If good is there, so is evil. If attraction is there, so is repulsion. If force is there, so is limitation.

Thus is the universe alive. All things are moral. That soul which within us is a sentiment, outside of us is a law. We feel its inspiration; out there in history we can see its fatal strength. “It is in the world, and the world was made by it.” Justice is not postponed. A perfect equity adjusts its balance in all parts of life. Ἀεὶ γὰρ εὖ πίπτουσιν οἱ Διὸς κύβοι,—The dice of God are always loaded. The world looks like a multiplication-table, or a mathematical equation, which, turn it how you will, balances itself. Take what figure you will, its exact value, nor more nor less, still returns to you. Every secret is told, every crime is punished, every virtue rewarded, every wrong redressed, in silence and certainty. What we call retribution is the universal necessity by which the whole appears wherever a part appears. If you see smoke, there must be fire. If you see a hand or a limb, you know that the trunk to which it belongs is there behind.

The universe is alive. All things are moral. The soul we feel within us is a law in the world around us. We feel its inspiration, and in history we can see its irresistible power. “It is in the world, and the world was made by it.” Justice is not delayed. Perfect fairness balances every part of life. Ἀεὶ γὰρ εὖ πίπτουσιν οἱ Διὸς κύβοι. The dice of God are always loaded. The world looks like a multiplication table or a mathematical equation. However you look at it, it balances itself. Whatever number you choose, its exact value comes back to you, no more and no less. Every secret is revealed, every crime punished, every virtue rewarded, and every wrong made right, silently and surely. What we call retribution is the universal necessity that makes the whole appear wherever a part appears. If you see smoke, there must be fire. If you see a hand or a limb, you know the body it belongs to is there behind it.

Every act rewards itself, or, in other words integrates itself, in a twofold manner; first in the thing, or in real nature; and secondly in the circumstance, or in apparent nature. Men call the circumstance the retribution. The causal retribution is in the thing and is seen by the soul. The retribution in the circumstance is seen by the understanding; it is inseparable from the thing, but is often spread over a long time and so does not become distinct until after many years. The specific stripes may follow late after the offence, but they follow because they accompany it. Crime and punishment grow out of one stem. Punishment is a fruit that unsuspected ripens within the flower of the pleasure which concealed it. Cause and effect, means and ends, seed and fruit, cannot be severed; for the effect already blooms in the cause, the end preexists in the means, the fruit in the seed.

Every act carries its own reward, or, in other words, completes itself in two ways. First, it does so in the thing itself, or in its real nature. Second, it does so in the circumstances, or in its apparent nature. People call the consequences in the circumstances retribution. The retribution that follows as a matter of cause and effect is in the thing itself, and the soul sees it. The understanding sees the retribution in the circumstances. This retribution cannot be separated from the thing itself, but it is often spread over a long time. So it may not become clear until many years later. The particular blows may come long after the offense, but they follow because they go with it. Crime and punishment grow from the same stem. Punishment is a fruit that ripens unnoticed inside the flower of pleasure that hid it. Cause and effect, means and ends, seed and fruit cannot be separated. The effect already blooms in the cause, the end already exists in the means, and the fruit in the seed.

Whilst thus the world will be whole and refuses to be disparted, we seek to act partially, to sunder, to appropriate; for example,—to gratify the senses we sever the pleasure of the senses from the needs of the character. The ingenuity of man has always been dedicated to the solution of one problem,—how to detach the sensual sweet, the sensual strong, the sensual bright, etc., from the moral sweet, the moral deep, the moral fair; that is, again, to contrive to cut clean off this upper surface so thin as to leave it bottomless; to get a one end, without an other end. The soul says, ‘Eat;’ the body would feast. The soul says, ‘The man and woman shall be one flesh and one soul;’ the body would join the flesh only. The soul says, ‘Have dominion over all things to the ends of virtue;’ the body would have the power over things to its own ends.

The world remains whole and refuses to be divided. Yet we try to act on only part of it, to divide it and claim parts for ourselves. For example, to gratify our senses, we separate their pleasure from the needs of character. Human ingenuity has always been devoted to solving one problem. How can we separate what is sweet, strong, or bright to the senses from what is morally sweet, deep, or fair? In other words, how can we slice off the upper surface so thinly that it has no bottom? How can we get one end without an other end? The soul says, ‘Eat.’ The body wants to feast. The soul says, ‘Man and woman shall be one flesh and one soul.’ The body wants to join only the flesh. The soul says, ‘Have power over all things for the sake of virtue.’ The body wants power over things for its own purposes.

The soul strives amain to live and work through all things. It would be the only fact. All things shall be added unto it,—power, pleasure, knowledge, beauty. The particular man aims to be somebody; to set up for himself; to truck and higgle for a private good; and, in particulars, to ride that he may ride; to dress that he may be dressed; to eat that he may eat; and to govern, that he may be seen. Men seek to be great; they would have offices, wealth, power, and fame. They think that to be great is to possess one side of nature,—the sweet, without the other side, the bitter.

The soul strives with all its might to live and work through all things. It would be the only fact. All things shall be added to it: power, pleasure, knowledge, and beauty. The individual wants to be somebody and establish himself. He trades and bargains for his own benefit. In particular, he rides so that he may ride, dresses so that he may be dressed, and eats so that he may eat. He governs so that he may be seen. Men seek to be great. They want positions of authority, wealth, power, and fame. They think greatness means possessing one side of nature, the sweet, without the other side, the bitter.

This dividing and detaching is steadily counteracted. Up to this day it must be owned no projector has had the smallest success. The parted water reunites behind our hand. Pleasure is taken out of pleasant things, profit out of profitable things, power out of strong things, as soon as we seek to separate them from the whole. We can no more halve things and get the sensual good, by itself, than we can get an inside that shall have no outside, or a light without a shadow. “Drive out Nature with a fork, she comes running back.”

This dividing and separating is constantly resisted. We must admit that, to this day, no one who has tried it has had the slightest success. The water we part flows back together behind our hand. As soon as we try to separate things from the whole, pleasant things lose their pleasure, profitable things their profit, and strong things their power. We cannot split things in two and keep only the pleasure they give our senses. That is no more possible than having an inside without an outside, or light without a shadow. “Drive Nature out with a fork, and she comes running back.”

Life invests itself with inevitable conditions, which the unwise seek to dodge, which one and another brags that he does not know, that they do not touch him;—but the brag is on his lips, the conditions are in his soul. If he escapes them in one part they attack him in another more vital part. If he has escaped them in form and in the appearance, it is because he has resisted his life and fled from himself, and the retribution is so much death. So signal is the failure of all attempts to make this separation of the good from the tax, that the experiment would not be tried,—since to try it is to be mad,—but for the circumstance, that when the disease began in the will, of rebellion and separation, the intellect is at once infected, so that the man ceases to see God whole in each object, but is able to see the sensual allurement of an object and not see the sensual hurt; he sees the mermaid’s head but not the dragon’s tail, and thinks he can cut off that which he would have from that which he would not have. “How secret art thou who dwellest in the highest heavens in silence, O thou only great God, sprinkling with an unwearied providence certain penal blindnesses upon such as have unbridled desires!”¹

Life comes with unavoidable conditions. The unwise try to evade them. People boast that they know nothing of these conditions and that the conditions do not touch them. But the boast is on their lips, while the conditions are in their souls. If someone escapes the conditions in one part of life, they attack him in another, more vital part. If he has escaped them in form and appearance, it is because he has resisted his own life and fled from himself. His punishment is a corresponding loss of life. All attempts to separate the good from its cost fail so completely that no one would make the attempt. To try it is madness. But when the will first becomes diseased with rebellion and the desire for separation, the intellect is infected at once. As a result, the person no longer sees God whole in each object. Instead, he can see the object’s sensual appeal without seeing the sensual harm. He sees the mermaid’s head but not the dragon’s tail. He thinks he can cut off what he wants from what he does not want. “How hidden you are, dwelling in silence in the highest heavens, O you, the only great God. With tireless care, you send blindness as punishment upon those whose desires know no restraint!”¹

The human soul is true to these facts in the painting of fable, of history, of law, of proverbs, of conversation. It finds a tongue in literature unawares. Thus the Greeks called Jupiter, Supreme Mind; but having traditionally ascribed to him many base actions, they involuntarily made amends to reason by tying up the hands of so bad a god. He is made as helpless as a king of England. Prometheus knows one secret which Jove must bargain for; Minerva, another. He cannot get his own thunders; Minerva keeps the key of them:—

The human soul remains true to these facts when it creates fables, histories, laws, proverbs, and conversations. Without realizing it, the soul finds a voice in literature. For example, the Greeks called Jupiter the Supreme Mind. But tradition also credited him with many wicked acts. So, without meaning to, the Greeks made things right with reason by tying the hands of such a bad god. They made him as helpless as a king of England. Prometheus knows one secret that Jove must bargain for. Minerva knows another. Jove cannot get his own thunderbolts because Minerva keeps the key to them:

A plain confession of the in-working of the All and of its moral aim. The Indian mythology ends in the same ethics; and it would seem impossible for any fable to be invented and get any currency which was not moral. Aurora forgot to ask youth for her lover, and though Tithonus is immortal, he is old. Achilles is not quite invulnerable; the sacred waters did not wash the heel by which Thetis held him. Siegfried, in the Nibelungen, is not quite immortal, for a leaf fell on his back whilst he was bathing in the dragon’s blood, and that spot which it covered is mortal. And so it must be. There is a crack in every thing God has made. It would seem there is always this vindictive circumstance stealing in at unawares even into the wild poesy in which the human fancy attempted to make bold holiday and to shake itself free of the old laws,—this back-stroke, this kick of the gun, certifying that the law is fatal; that in nature nothing can be given, all things are sold.

A plain admission that the All works within everything and has a moral purpose. Indian mythology leads to the same moral principles. And it seems impossible for any tale to be invented and gain acceptance without a moral. Aurora forgot to ask for youth for her lover. So, though Tithonus is immortal, he is old. Achilles is not quite invulnerable. The sacred waters did not wash the heel by which Thetis held him. Siegfried, in the Nibelungen, is not quite immortal. A leaf fell on his back while he was bathing in the dragon’s blood, and the spot it covered remained mortal. And so it must be. There is a crack in everything God has made. Human imagination tried to celebrate its freedom and shake off the old laws, even in its wildest poetry. Yet even there, a punishing detail always seems to slip in unnoticed. It is a backlash, like the kick of a gun, confirming that the law is inescapable: in nature, nothing can be given, all things are sold.

This is that ancient doctrine of Nemesis, who keeps watch in the universe and lets no offence go unchastised. The Furies they said are attendants on justice, and if the sun in heaven should transgress his path they would punish him. The poets related that stone walls and iron swords and leathern thongs had an occult sympathy with the wrongs of their owners; that the belt which Ajax gave Hector dragged the Trojan hero over the field at the wheels of the car of Achilles, and the sword which Hector gave Ajax was that on whose point Ajax fell. They recorded that when the Thasians erected a statue to Theagenes, a victor in the games, one of his rivals went to it by night and endeavored to throw it down by repeated blows, until at last he moved it from its pedestal and was crushed to death beneath its fall.

This is the ancient doctrine of Nemesis, who watches over the universe and lets no offense go unpunished. People said that the Furies served justice. If the sun strayed from its path in the heavens, the Furies would punish it. The poets said that stone walls, iron swords, and leather straps had a mysterious sympathy with the wrongs done to their owners. The belt that Ajax gave Hector dragged the Trojan hero across the battlefield behind Achilles’ chariot. And the sword that Hector gave Ajax was the one on whose point Ajax fell. The poets also recorded a story about the Thasians, who erected a statue of Theagenes, a victor in the games. One of his rivals went to the statue at night and tried to knock it down with repeated blows. At last, he dislodged it from its pedestal and was crushed to death beneath it.

This voice of fable has in it somewhat divine. It came from thought above the will of the writer. That is the best part of each writer which has nothing private in it; that which he does not know; that which flowed out of his constitution and not from his too active invention; that which in the study of a single artist you might not easily find, but in the study of many you would abstract as the spirit of them all. Phidias it is not, but the work of man in that early Hellenic world that I would know. The name and circumstance of Phidias, however convenient for history, embarrass when we come to the highest criticism. We are to see that which man was tending to do in a given period, and was hindered, or, if you will, modified in doing, by the interfering volitions of Phidias, of Dante, of Shakspeare, the organ whereby man at the moment wrought.

There is something divine in the voice of fable. It came from thought beyond the writer’s will. The best part of each writer has nothing private in it. It is the part the writer does not know, the part that flowed from his nature rather than his overactive invention. You might not easily find it by studying one artist. But by studying many, you could draw it out as the spirit they all share. I want to know not Phidias, but the work of humanity in that early Hellenic world. The name and circumstances of Phidias are convenient for history, but they get in the way of the highest criticism. We must see what humanity was tending to do in a given period. Its efforts were hindered, or, if you prefer, modified by the interfering wills of Phidias, Dante, and Shakspeare. Each was the instrument through which humanity worked at the time.

Still more striking is the expression of this fact in the proverbs of all nations, which are always the literature of reason, or the statements of an absolute truth without qualification. Proverbs, like the sacred books of each nation, are the sanctuary of the intuitions. That which the droning world, chained to appearances, will not allow the realist to say in his own words, it will suffer him to say in proverbs without contradiction. And this law of laws, which the pulpit, the senate and the college deny, is hourly preached in all markets and workshops by flights of proverbs, whose teaching is as true and as omnipresent as that of birds and flies.

Even more striking is how this fact appears in the proverbs of all nations. Proverbs are always the literature of reason, stating absolute truths without qualification. Like each nation's sacred books, proverbs are a sanctuary for intuitions. The droning world is chained to appearances and will not let the realist speak in his own words. Yet it lets him say the same things in proverbs without contradiction. The pulpit, the senate, and the college deny this law of laws. Yet crowds of proverbs preach it every hour in all markets and workshops. Their teaching is as true and as ever-present as that of birds and flies.

All things are double, one against another.—Tit for tat; an eye for an eye; a tooth for a tooth; blood for blood; measure for measure; love for love.—Give and it shall be given you.—He that watereth shall be watered himself.—What will you have? quoth God; pay for it and take it.—Nothing venture, nothing have.—Thou shalt be paid exactly for what thou hast done, no more, no less.—Who doth not work shall not eat.—Harm watch, harm catch.—Curses always recoil on the head of him who imprecates them.—If you put a chain around the neck of a slave, the other end fastens itself around your own.—Bad counsel confounds the adviser.—The Devil is an ass.

Everything has its opposite. Tit for tat. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. Blood for blood. Measure for measure. Love for love. Give, and you will receive. Those who water others will be watered themselves. What do you want? God asks. Pay for it and take it. Risk nothing, gain nothing. You will be paid exactly for what you have done, no more and no less. Those who do not work shall not eat. Set out to harm others, and harm will come to you. Curses always come back on the person who utters them. If you put a chain around a slave’s neck, the other end fastens itself around your own. Bad advice confounds the person who gives it. The Devil is a fool.

It is thus written, because it is thus in life. Our action is overmastered and characterized above our will by the law of nature. We aim at a petty end quite aside from the public good, but our act arranges itself by irresistible magnetism in a line with the poles of the world.

It is written this way because this is how life is. The law of nature overpowers our will and shapes our actions. We aim for a small goal unrelated to the public good. But our action is irresistibly drawn into alignment with the poles of the world, as if by a magnet.

A man cannot speak but he judges himself. With his will or against his will he draws his portrait to the eye of his companions by every word. Every opinion reacts on him who utters it. It is a thread-ball thrown at a mark, but the other end remains in the thrower’s bag. Or rather it is a harpoon hurled at the whale, unwinding, as it flies, a coil of cord in the boat, and, if the harpoon is not good, or not well thrown, it will go nigh to cut the steersman in twain or to sink the boat.

A man cannot speak without judging himself. Whether he wants to or not, every word paints a portrait of him for his companions to see. Every opinion affects the person who expresses it. It is like a ball of thread thrown at a target, with the other end still in the thrower’s bag. Or rather, it is like a harpoon hurled at a whale. As the harpoon flies, it unwinds a coil of rope in the boat. If the harpoon is faulty or poorly thrown, it may nearly cut the steersman in two or sink the boat.

You cannot do wrong without suffering wrong. “No man had ever a point of pride that was not injurious to him,” said Burke. The exclusive in fashionable life does not see that he excludes himself from enjoyment, in the attempt to appropriate it. The exclusionist in religion does not see that he shuts the door of heaven on himself, in striving to shut out others. Treat men as pawns and ninepins and you shall suffer as well as they. If you leave out their heart, you shall lose your own. The senses would make things of all persons; of women, of children, of the poor. The vulgar proverb, “I will get it from his purse or get it from his skin,” is sound philosophy.

You cannot do wrong without suffering harm yourself. “No man ever had a source of pride that did not harm him,” said Burke. A person in fashionable society tries to reserve enjoyment for himself by excluding others. He does not see that he excludes himself from enjoyment too. A religious exclusionist tries to shut others out of heaven. He does not see that he shuts heaven’s door on himself too. Treat people as pawns and bowling pins, and you will suffer along with them. If you disregard their hearts, you will lose your own. The senses would turn all people into things: women, children, and the poor. The crude proverb, “I will get it from his purse or get it from his skin,” is sound philosophy.

All infractions of love and equity in our social relations are speedily punished. They are punished by fear. Whilst I stand in simple relations to my fellow-man, I have no displeasure in meeting him. We meet as water meets water, or as two currents of air mix, with perfect diffusion and interpenetration of nature. But as soon as there is any departure from simplicity, and attempt at halfness, or good for me that is not good for him, my neighbor feels the wrong; he shrinks from me as far as I have shrunk from him; his eyes no longer seek mine; there is war between us; there is hate in him and fear in me.

All violations of love and fairness in our relationships with others are quickly punished. They are punished by fear. As long as I relate to another person simply and openly, I feel no displeasure in meeting him. We meet as water meets water, or as two currents of air mix. Our natures flow completely into one another. But once I depart from simplicity and try to be less than whole, or seek a good for myself that is not good for him, my neighbor feels the wrong. He draws back from me as far as I have drawn back from him. His eyes no longer seek mine. There is war between us. He feels hate, and I feel fear.

All the old abuses in society, universal and particular, all unjust accumulations of property and power, are avenged in the same manner. Fear is an instructor of great sagacity and the herald of all revolutions. One thing he teaches, that there is rottenness where he appears. He is a carrion crow, and though you see not well what he hovers for, there is death somewhere. Our property is timid, our laws are timid, our cultivated classes are timid. Fear for ages has boded and mowed and gibbered over government and property. That obscene bird is not there for nothing. He indicates great wrongs which must be revised.

All the old abuses in society, both general and particular, are punished in the same way. So are all unjust accumulations of property and power. Fear is a very wise teacher and a warning of every revolution. Fear teaches one thing: wherever it appears, something is rotten. It is a carrion crow. Though you may not see clearly what it is circling over, there is death somewhere. Our property, our laws, and our educated classes are all fearful. For ages, fear has hovered over government and property, making grimaces and gibbering as a warning. That foul bird is not there for nothing. It points to great wrongs that must be corrected.

Of the like nature is that expectation of change which instantly follows the suspension of our voluntary activity. The terror of cloudless noon, the emerald of Polycrates, the awe of prosperity, the instinct which leads every generous soul to impose on itself tasks of a noble asceticism and vicarious virtue, are the tremblings of the balance of justice through the heart and mind of man.

A similar expectation of change arises as soon as we stop acting of our own will. We feel terror under a cloudless noon sky and awe in the face of prosperity. There is also the emerald of Polycrates. Every generous soul feels driven to take on noble acts of self-denial and virtue for the sake of others. All these are signs of the balance of justice trembling within the human heart and mind.

Experienced men of the world know very well that it is best to pay scot and lot as they go along, and that a man often pays dear for a small frugality. The borrower runs in his own debt. Has a man gained any thing who has received a hundred favors and rendered none? Has he gained by borrowing, through indolence or cunning, his neighbor’s wares, or horses, or money? There arises on the deed the instant acknowledgment of benefit on the one part and of debt on the other; that is, of superiority and inferiority. The transaction remains in the memory of himself and his neighbor; and every new transaction alters according to its nature their relation to each other. He may soon come to see that he had better have broken his own bones than to have ridden in his neighbor’s coach, and that “the highest price he can pay for a thing is to ask for it.”

Experienced people know it is best to pay their fair share as they go. They also know that a small saving often comes at a high price. The borrower goes into debt to himself. Has a man gained anything if he has received a hundred favors and returned none? Has he gained by borrowing his neighbor’s goods, horses, or money out of laziness or cunning? The act immediately establishes that one has given a benefit and the other owes a debt. In other words, one is superior and the other inferior. Both men remember the transaction, and each new transaction changes their relationship according to its nature. The borrower may soon realize that he would have been better off breaking his own bones than riding in his neighbor’s coach. He may also see that “the highest price he can pay for a thing is to ask for it.”

A wise man will extend this lesson to all parts of life, and know that it is the part of prudence to face every claimant and pay every just demand on your time, your talents, or your heart. Always pay; for first or last you must pay your entire debt. Persons and events may stand for a time between you and justice, but it is only a postponement. You must pay at last your own debt. If you are wise you will dread a prosperity which only loads you with more. Benefit is the end of nature. But for every benefit which you receive, a tax is levied. He is great who confers the most benefits. He is base,—and that is the one base thing in the universe,—to receive favors and render none. In the order of nature we cannot render benefits to those from whom we receive them, or only seldom. But the benefit we receive must be rendered again, line for line, deed for deed, cent for cent, to somebody. Beware of too much good staying in your hand. It will fast corrupt and worm worms. Pay it away quickly in some sort.

A wise person will apply this lesson to every part of life. Wisdom means facing everyone who makes a claim on you and meeting every just demand on your time, talents, or heart. Always pay, because sooner or later you must pay your entire debt. People and events may stand between you and justice for a time, but they only delay it. In the end, you must pay your own debt. If you are wise, you will fear prosperity that only adds to your debt. Nature’s purpose is to do good. But every benefit you receive comes with a cost. The person who gives the most benefits is great. A person who receives favors and gives none in return is low, and receiving without giving is the one truly low thing in the universe. In the natural order, we cannot repay those from whom we receive benefits, or can do so only rarely. But we must pass on every benefit we receive to someone else, line for line, deed for deed, cent for cent. Beware of holding on to too much good. It will quickly rot and breed worms. Pass it on quickly in some way.

Labor is watched over by the same pitiless laws. Cheapest, say the prudent, is the dearest labor. What we buy in a broom, a mat, a wagon, a knife, is some application of good sense to a common want. It is best to pay in your land a skilful gardener, or to buy good sense applied to gardening; in your sailor, good sense applied to navigation; in the house, good sense applied to cooking, sewing, serving; in your agent, good sense applied to accounts and affairs. So do you multiply your presence, or spread yourself throughout your estate. But because of the dual constitution of things, in labor as in life there can be no cheating. The thief steals from himself. The swindler swindles himself. For the real price of labor is knowledge and virtue, whereof wealth and credit are signs. These signs, like paper money, may be counterfeited or stolen, but that which they represent, namely, knowledge and virtue, cannot be counterfeited or stolen. These ends of labor cannot be answered but by real exertions of the mind, and in obedience to pure motives. The cheat, the defaulter, the gambler, cannot extort the knowledge of material and moral nature which his honest care and pains yield to the operative. The law of nature is, Do the thing, and you shall have the Power; but they who do not the thing have not the power.

The same merciless laws govern labor. As prudent people say, the cheapest labor costs the most. When we buy a broom, a mat, a wagon, or a knife, we buy common sense applied to an everyday need. It is best to pay a skilled gardener to work your land, buying common sense applied to gardening. In a sailor, buy common sense applied to navigation. In the house, buy common sense applied to cooking, sewing, and serving. In your agent, buy common sense applied to accounts and business. In this way, you multiply your presence and extend yourself throughout your property. But because things have a dual nature, there can be no cheating in labor, just as there can be none in life. The thief steals from himself. The swindler swindles himself. For the true reward of labor is knowledge and virtue, and wealth and credit are signs of them. These signs, like paper money, can be counterfeited or stolen. But what they represent, knowledge and virtue, cannot be counterfeited or stolen. These rewards of labor can be gained only through genuine mental effort and pure motives. The cheat, the embezzler, and the gambler cannot seize the knowledge of physical and moral nature that honest care and effort give the worker. The law of nature is: Do the thing, and you will have the power. But those who do not do the thing do not have the power.

Human labor, through all its forms, from the sharpening of a stake to the construction of a city or an epic, is one immense illustration of the perfect compensation of the universe. The absolute balance of Give and Take, the doctrine that every thing has its price,—and if that price is not paid, not that thing but something else is obtained, and that it is impossible to get any thing without its price,—is not less sublime in the columns of a leger than in the budgets of states, in the laws of light and darkness, in all the action and reaction of nature. I cannot doubt that the high laws which each man sees implicated in those processes with which he is conversant, the stern ethics which sparkle on his chisel-edge, which are measured out by his plumb and foot-rule, which stand as manifest in the footing of the shop-bill as in the history of a state,—do recommend to him his trade, and though seldom named, exalt his business to his imagination.

Human labor, in all its forms, offers one immense example of the universe’s perfect balance of gains and losses. This is true whether we sharpen a stake or build a city or compose an epic. Give and take are in absolute balance. Everything has its price, and if that price is not paid, we get something else instead. It is impossible to get anything without paying its price. This principle is no less sublime in the columns of an account book than in the budgets of states. It is no less sublime there than in the laws of light and darkness, or in all nature’s action and reaction. I cannot doubt that these higher laws make each man value his trade. He sees them at work in the processes he knows well. Their stern morality shines at the edge of his chisel and is measured by his plumb line and ruler. These laws are as clear in the total of a shop bill as in the history of a state. Though seldom named, they elevate his work in his imagination.

The league between virtue and nature engages all things to assume a hostile front to vice. The beautiful laws and substances of the world persecute and whip the traitor. He finds that things are arranged for truth and benefit, but there is no den in the wide world to hide a rogue. Commit a crime, and the earth is made of glass. Commit a crime, and it seems as if a coat of snow fell on the ground, such as reveals in the woods the track of every partridge and fox and squirrel and mole. You cannot recall the spoken word, you cannot wipe out the foot-track, you cannot draw up the ladder, so as to leave no inlet or clew. Some damning circumstance always transpires. The laws and substances of nature,—water, snow, wind, gravitation,—become penalties to the thief.

The alliance between virtue and nature makes all things turn against vice. The beautiful laws and substances of the world pursue and punish the traitor. He finds that things are arranged to serve truth and benefit, but there is no place in the whole world where a rogue can hide. Commit a crime, and the earth becomes glass. Commit a crime, and it is as if snow had fallen on the ground, revealing the tracks of every partridge, fox, squirrel, and mole in the woods. You cannot take back a spoken word or erase a footprint. You cannot pull up the ladder and leave no way in or clue behind. Some incriminating detail always comes to light. The laws and substances of nature, water, snow, wind, and gravity, become punishments for the thief.

On the other hand the law holds with equal sureness for all right action. Love, and you shall be loved. All love is mathematically just, as much as the two sides of an algebraic equation. The good man has absolute good, which like fire turns every thing to its own nature, so that you cannot do him any harm; but as the royal armies sent against Napoleon, when he approached cast down their colors and from enemies became friends, so disasters of all kinds, as sickness, offence, poverty, prove benefactors:—

On the other hand, the law applies just as surely to all right action. Love, and you will be loved. All love is mathematically fair, just like the two sides of an algebraic equation. A good man has absolute goodness. Like fire, this goodness transforms everything into its own nature, so that you cannot harm him. The royal armies sent against Napoleon laid down their flags as he approached and became his friends instead of enemies. In the same way, disasters of all kinds, such as sickness, insult, and poverty, prove to be blessings:

The good are befriended even by weakness and defect. As no man had ever a point of pride that was not injurious to him, so no man had ever a defect that was not somewhere made useful to him. The stag in the fable admired his horns and blamed his feet, but when the hunter came, his feet saved him, and afterwards, caught in the thicket, his horns destroyed him. Every man in his lifetime needs to thank his faults. As no man thoroughly understands a truth until he has contended against it, so no man has a thorough acquaintance with the hindrances or talents of men until he has suffered from the one and seen the triumph of the other over his own want of the same. Has he a defect of temper that unfits him to live in society? Thereby he is driven to entertain himself alone and acquire habits of self-help; and thus, like the wounded oyster, he mends his shell with pearl.

Even weakness and flaws help good people. Just as every source of pride harms a person, every flaw proves useful somewhere. In the fable, the stag admired his antlers and disliked his feet. But when the hunter came, his feet saved him. Later, his antlers caught in a thicket and caused his death. Everyone has reason to thank their faults during their lifetime. Just as no one fully understands a truth until they have argued against it, no one fully understands others’ limitations and talents without firsthand experience. They must suffer from those limitations and see those talents triumph where they themselves lack them. Does a person have a flaw in their temperament that makes them unfit for society? If so, they are driven to entertain themselves alone and learn to rely on themselves. In this way, like the wounded oyster, they mend their shell with a pearl.

Our strength grows out of our weakness. The indignation which arms itself with secret forces does not awaken until we are pricked and stung and sorely assailed. A great man is always willing to be little. Whilst he sits on the cushion of advantages, he goes to sleep. When he is pushed, tormented, defeated, he has a chance to learn something; he has been put on his wits, on his manhood; he has gained facts; learns his ignorance; is cured of the insanity of conceit; has got moderation and real skill. The wise man throws himself on the side of his assailants. It is more his interest than it is theirs to find his weak point. The wound cicatrizes and falls off from him like a dead skin and when they would triumph, lo! he has passed on invulnerable. Blame is safer than praise. I hate to be defended in a newspaper. As long as all that is said is said against me, I feel a certain assurance of success. But as soon as honeyed words of praise are spoken for me I feel as one that lies unprotected before his enemies. In general, every evil to which we do not succumb is a benefactor. As the Sandwich Islander believes that the strength and valor of the enemy he kills passes into himself, so we gain the strength of the temptation we resist.

Our strength grows out of our weakness. The anger that draws on hidden strength awakens only when we are pricked, stung, and fiercely attacked. A great man is always willing to be small. While he sits comfortably on his advantages, he falls asleep. When he is pushed, tormented, and defeated, he has a chance to learn something. He must rely on his wits and his courage. He gains facts, discovers his ignorance, and is cured of the madness of conceit. He gains moderation and real skill. The wise man takes the side of those who attack him. Finding his weak point matters more to him than to them. The wound heals and falls away like dead skin. And when his attackers expect to triumph, look, he has moved on, beyond their power to hurt him. Blame is safer than praise. I hate to be defended in a newspaper. As long as everything said about me is against me, I feel a certain confidence that I will succeed. But as soon as people speak sweet words of praise for me, I feel exposed before my enemies. In general, every evil that does not overcome us is a benefactor. The Sandwich Islander believes that the strength and courage of an enemy he kills pass into him. In the same way, we gain the strength of the temptation we resist.

The same guards which protect us from disaster, defect, and enmity, defend us, if we will, from selfishness and fraud. Bolts and bars are not the best of our institutions, nor is shrewdness in trade a mark of wisdom. Men suffer all their life long under the foolish superstition that they can be cheated. But it is as impossible for a man to be cheated by any one but himself, as for a thing to be and not to be at the same time. There is a third silent party to all our bargains. The nature and soul of things takes on itself the guaranty of the fulfilment of every contract, so that honest service cannot come to loss. If you serve an ungrateful master, serve him the more. Put God in your debt. Every stroke shall be repaid. The longer The payment is withholden, the better for you; for compound interest on compound interest is the rate and usage of this exchequer.

The same safeguards that protect us from disaster, defect, and hostility can also protect us from selfishness and fraud, if we choose. Locks and bars are not our best institutions, and being shrewd in business is not a sign of wisdom. People suffer all their lives under the foolish superstition that they can be cheated. But no one can be cheated by anyone but themselves. That is as impossible as something both existing and not existing at the same time. There is a third, silent party to all our bargains. The nature and soul of things guarantee that every contract will be fulfilled, so that honest service cannot come to loss. If you serve an ungrateful master, serve him all the more. Put God in your debt. Every stroke of work will be repaid. The longer payment is withheld, the better for you. For this treasury pays compound interest on compound interest.

The history of persecution is a history of endeavors to cheat nature, to make water run up hill, to twist a rope of sand. It makes no difference whether the actors be many or one, a tyrant or a mob. A mob is a society of bodies voluntarily bereaving themselves of reason and traversing its work. The mob is man voluntarily descending to the nature of the beast. Its fit hour of activity is night. Its actions are insane like its whole constitution. It persecutes a principle; it would whip a right; it would tar and feather justice, by inflicting fire and outrage upon the houses and persons of those who have these. It resembles the prank of boys, who run with fire-engines to put out the ruddy aurora streaming to the stars. The inviolate spirit turns their spite against the wrongdoers. The martyr cannot be dishonored. Every lash inflicted is a tongue of fame; every prison, a more illustrious abode; every burned book or house enlightens the world; every suppressed or expunged word reverberates through the earth from side to side. Hours of sanity and consideration are always arriving to communities, as to individuals, when the truth is seen and the martyrs are justified.

The history of persecution is a history of attempts to cheat nature, to make water run uphill, to twist a rope of sand. It makes no difference whether the persecutors are many or one, a tyrant or a mob. A mob is a group of people who willingly give up reason and work against it. In a mob, people willingly descend to the level of beasts. Night is the fitting time for a mob to act. Its actions are as insane as its very nature. A mob persecutes a principle. It would whip a right and tar and feather justice by burning and attacking the homes and persons of those who possess them. It is like the prank of boys who rush out with fire engines to put out the red northern lights streaming toward the stars. The spirit cannot be violated, and it turns the persecutors' malice against them. The martyr cannot be dishonored. Every lash speaks of the martyr's fame. Every prison becomes a more glorious dwelling. Every burned book or house brings light to the world. Every suppressed or erased word echoes from one end of the earth to the other. Communities, like individuals, always have moments of sanity and reflection when they see the truth and recognize that the martyrs were right.

Thus do all things preach the indifferency of circumstances. The man is all. Every thing has two sides, a good and an evil. Every advantage has its tax. I learn to be content. But the doctrine of compensation is not the doctrine of indifferency. The thoughtless say, on hearing these representations,—What boots it to do well? there is one event to good and evil; if I gain any good I must pay for it; if I lose any good I gain some other; all actions are indifferent.

Thus, all things teach that circumstances do not matter. The person is everything. Everything has two sides, one good and one bad. Every advantage has its cost. I learn to be content. But the doctrine of compensation is not the doctrine that nothing matters. Thoughtless people hear these ideas and say: What is the point of doing good? Good and evil have the same outcome. If I gain something good, I must pay for it. If I lose something good, I gain something else. All actions are equal.

There is a deeper fact in the soul than compensation, to wit, its own nature. The soul is not a compensation, but a life. The soul is. Under all this running sea of circumstance, whose waters ebb and flow with perfect balance, lies the aboriginal abyss of real Being. Essence, or God, is not a relation or a part, but the whole. Being is the vast affirmative, excluding negation, self-balanced, and swallowing up all relations, parts and times within itself. Nature, truth, virtue, are the influx from thence. Vice is the absence or departure of the same. Nothing, Falsehood, may indeed stand as the great Night or shade on which as a background the living universe paints itself forth, but no fact is begotten by it; it cannot work, for it is not. It cannot work any good; it cannot work any harm. It is harm inasmuch as it is worse not to be than to be.

There is a deeper fact about the soul than compensation: its own nature. The soul is not a compensation, but a life. The soul is. Beneath the ever-moving sea of circumstances, whose waters rise and fall in perfect balance, lies the original abyss of real Being. Essence, or God, is not a relationship or a part, but the whole. Being is the great affirmation. It excludes negation, balances itself, and contains all relationships, parts, and times within itself. Nature, truth, and virtue flow from Being. Vice is their absence or departure. Nothing, or Falsehood, may indeed be the great Night or shadow against which the living universe reveals itself. But Nothing brings no fact into being. It cannot act, because it does not exist. It cannot do any good, and it cannot do any harm. It is harmful only because it is worse not to exist than to exist.

We feel defrauded of the retribution due to evil acts, because the criminal adheres to his vice and contumacy and does not come to a crisis or judgment anywhere in visible nature. There is no stunning confutation of his nonsense before men and angels. Has he therefore outwitted the law? Inasmuch as he carries the malignity and the lie with him he so far deceases from nature. In some manner there will be a demonstration of the wrong to the understanding also; but, should we not see it, this deadly deduction makes square the eternal account.

We feel cheated of the punishment evil acts deserve because the criminal clings to his vice and defiance. Nowhere in the visible world does he face a crisis or judgment. His nonsense is not decisively exposed before people and angels. Has he therefore outwitted the law? To the extent that he carries malice and lies within him, he loses his connection to nature. Somehow, the wrong will also be made clear to our understanding. But even if we do not see it, this deadly loss balances the eternal account.

Neither can it be said, on the other hand, that the gain of rectitude must be bought by any loss. There is no penalty to virtue; no penalty to wisdom; they are proper additions of being. In a virtuous action I properly am; in a virtuous act I add to the world; I plant into deserts conquered from Chaos and Nothing and see the darkness receding on the limits of the horizon. There can be no excess to love, none to knowledge, none to beauty, when these attributes are considered in the purest sense. The soul refuses limits, and always affirms an Optimism, never a Pessimism.

On the other hand, we cannot say that becoming virtuous must come at the cost of any loss. There is no penalty for virtue, and no penalty for wisdom. Both truly add to our being. In a virtuous action, I truly am. In such an act, I add to the world. I plant in deserts reclaimed from Chaos and Nothing, and I see the darkness retreating at the horizon. In their purest sense, there can be no excess of love, knowledge, or beauty. The soul rejects limits and always affirms Optimism, never Pessimism.

His life is a progress, and not a station. His instinct is trust. Our instinct uses “more” and “less” in application to man, of the presence of the soul, and not of its absence, the brave man is greater than the coward; the true, the benevolent, the wise, is more a man and not less, than the fool and knave. There is no tax on the good of virtue, for that is the incoming of God himself, or absolute existence, without any comparative. Material good has its tax, and if it came without desert or sweat, has no root in me, and the next wind will blow it away. But all the good of nature is the soul’s, and may be had if paid for in nature’s lawful coin, that is, by labor which the heart and the head allow. I no longer wish to meet a good I do not earn, for example to find a pot of buried gold, knowing that it brings with it new burdens. I do not wish more external goods,—neither possessions, nor honors, nor powers, nor persons. The gain is apparent; the tax is certain. But there is no tax on the knowledge that the compensation exists and that it is not desirable to dig up treasure. Herein I rejoice with a serene eternal peace. I contract the boundaries of possible mischief. I learn the wisdom of St. Bernard,—“Nothing can work me damage except myself; the harm that I sustain I carry about with me, and never am a real sufferer but by my own fault.”

His life is a journey, not a fixed position. His instinct is to trust. When we say one person is “more” or “less” human, we mean the presence of the soul, not its absence. A brave person is greater than a coward. A truthful, kind, wise person is more human, not less, than a fool or a scoundrel. There is no cost attached to the good of virtue. Virtue is the arrival of God himself, or absolute existence, beyond all comparison. Material goods have their cost. If they come without merit or hard work, they have no root in me. The next wind will blow them away. But all the good of nature belongs to the soul. It can be had if paid for in nature’s lawful currency: work that the heart and mind approve. I no longer wish to receive a good I have not earned, such as a pot of buried gold. I know it brings new burdens. I do not want more external goods, whether possessions, honors, powers, or people. The gain is apparent. The cost is certain. But there is no cost to knowing that compensation exists and that digging up treasure is not desirable. In this knowledge I rejoice with a serene, eternal peace. I narrow the bounds of possible harm. I learn the wisdom of St. Bernard: “Nothing can harm me except myself. I carry the harm I suffer within me, and I never truly suffer except through my own fault.”

In the nature of the soul is the compensation for the inequalities of condition. The radical tragedy of nature seems to be the distinction of More and Less. How can Less not feel the pain; how not feel indignation or malevolence towards More? Look at those who have less faculty, and one feels sad and knows not well what to make of it. He almost shuns their eye; he fears they will upbraid God. What should they do? It seems a great injustice. But see the facts nearly and these mountainous inequalities vanish. Love reduces them as the sun melts the iceberg in the sea. The heart and soul of all men being one, this bitterness of His and Mine ceases. His is mine. I am my brother and my brother is me. If I feel overshadowed and outdone by great neighbors, I can yet love; I can still receive; and he that loveth maketh his own the grandeur he loves. Thereby I make the discovery that my brother is my guardian, acting for me with the friendliest designs, and the estate I so admired and envied is my own. It is the nature of the soul to appropriate all things. Jesus and Shakspeare are fragments of the soul, and by love I conquer and incorporate them in my own conscious domain. His virtue,—is not that mine? His wit,—if it cannot be made mine, it is not wit.

The soul’s nature makes up for inequalities in people’s circumstances. The deepest tragedy of nature seems to be the distinction between More and Less. How can those who have Less not feel pain? How can they not feel anger or ill will toward those who have More? When we look at people with less ability, we feel sad and hardly know what to make of it. We almost avoid their eyes, fearing they will reproach God. What should they do? Their condition seems terribly unfair. But look closely at the facts, and these mountainous inequalities disappear. Love reduces them as the sun melts an iceberg in the sea. Because all people share one heart and soul, the bitterness of His and Mine fades away. What is his is mine. I am my brother, and my brother is me. If I feel overshadowed and outdone by great neighbors, I can still love and receive. And whoever loves makes the greatness he loves his own. In this way, I discover that my brother is my guardian, acting for me with the friendliest intentions. The riches I so admired and envied are my own. It is the soul’s nature to make all things its own. Jesus and Shakspeare are fragments of the soul. Through love, I conquer them and make them part of my own conscious domain. His virtue, is it not mine? His wit, if I cannot make it mine, it is not wit.

Such also is the natural history of calamity. The changes which break up at short intervals the prosperity of men are advertisements of a nature whose law is growth. Every soul is by this intrinsic necessity quitting its whole system of things, its friends and home and laws and faith, as the shell-fish crawls out of its beautiful but stony case, because it no longer admits of its growth, and slowly forms a new house. In proportion to the vigor of the individual these revolutions are frequent, until in some happier mind they are incessant and all worldly relations hang very loosely about him, becoming as it were a transparent fluid membrane through which the living form is seen, and not, as in most men, an indurated heterogeneous fabric of many dates and of no settled character, in which the man is imprisoned. Then there can be enlargement, and the man of to-day scarcely recognizes the man of yesterday. And such should be the outward biography of man in time, a putting off of dead circumstances day by day, as he renews his raiment day by day. But to us, in our lapsed estate, resting, not advancing, resisting, not cooperating with the divine expansion, this growth comes by shocks.

Such is also the natural history of calamity. The changes that repeatedly disrupt human prosperity are signs of a nature whose law is growth. By this inner necessity, every soul leaves behind its whole way of life, its friends, home, laws, and faith. It is like a shellfish crawling out of its beautiful but stony shell because the shell no longer allows it to grow. Slowly, it forms a new home. The more vigorous the individual, the more frequent these revolutions become. In some happier minds, they become constant, and all worldly ties rest very loosely upon the person. These ties become, as it were, a transparent, fluid membrane through which the living form can be seen. For most people, by contrast, worldly ties form a hardened patchwork, made at different times and lacking any consistent character. The person is imprisoned within it. Then growth is possible, and the person of today scarcely recognizes the person of yesterday. This is how a person's outward life should unfold over time. Each day, the person should shed dead circumstances, just as they change their clothes each day. But we have fallen from that state. We rest rather than advance, and resist rather than cooperate with divine expansion. For us, therefore, growth comes through shocks.

We cannot part with our friends. We cannot let our angels go. We do not see that they only go out that archangels may come in. We are idolaters of the old. We do not believe in the riches of the soul, in its proper eternity and omnipresence. We do not believe there is any force in to-day to rival or recreate that beautiful yesterday. We linger in the ruins of the old tent where once we had bread and shelter and organs, nor believe that the spirit can feed, cover, and nerve us again. We cannot again find aught so dear, so sweet, so graceful. But we sit and weep in vain. The voice of the Almighty saith, ‘Up and onward for evermore!’ We cannot stay amid the ruins. Neither will we rely on the new; and so we walk ever with reverted eyes, like those monsters who look backwards.

We cannot part with our friends. We cannot let our angels go. We do not see that they leave only so that archangels may come in. We worship the old. We do not believe in the riches of the soul, in its true eternity and presence everywhere. We do not believe that today has the power to rival or recreate that beautiful yesterday. We linger in the ruins of the old tent where we once had bread, shelter, and organs. We do not believe that the spirit can feed, shelter, and strengthen us again. We cannot find anything so dear, so sweet, so graceful again. But we sit and weep in vain. The voice of the Almighty says, ‘Get up and move onward forever!’ We cannot stay among the ruins. Yet we will not trust the new. So we walk on, always looking back, like those monsters who look backwards.

And yet the compensations of calamity are made apparent to the understanding also, after long intervals of time. A fever, a mutilation, a cruel disappointment, a loss of wealth, a loss of friends, seems at the moment unpaid loss, and unpayable. But the sure years reveal the deep remedial force that underlies all facts. The death of a dear friend, wife, brother, lover, which seemed nothing but privation, somewhat later assumes the aspect of a guide or genius; for it commonly operates revolutions in our way of life, terminates an epoch of infancy or of youth which was waiting to be closed, breaks up a wonted occupation, or a household, or style of living, and allows the formation of new ones more friendly to the growth of character. It permits or constrains the formation of new acquaintances and the reception of new influences that prove of the first importance to the next years; and the man or woman who would have remained a sunny garden-flower, with no room for its roots and too much sunshine for its head, by the falling of the walls and the neglect of the gardener is made the banian of the forest, yielding shade and fruit to wide neighborhoods of men.

Yet, after a long time, we can also understand the compensation that comes from disaster. A fever, a mutilation, a cruel disappointment, a loss of wealth, or a loss of friends seems, at the moment, an uncompensated and irreparable loss. But the passing years reveal the deep healing force that underlies all events. The death of a dear friend, wife, brother, or lover seems at first to be nothing but a loss. Somewhat later, though, that loss takes on the role of a guide or guiding spirit. For such a death often brings profound changes to our way of life. It ends a period of childhood or youth that was ready to close. It breaks up a familiar occupation, household, or way of living. And it allows new ones to form that are more favorable to the growth of character. The loss allows or forces us to make new acquaintances and take in new influences. These prove crucial in the years that follow. A man or woman who would have remained a sunny garden flower may instead become a banyan tree in the forest. The flower had no room for its roots and too much sunshine on its head. But when the walls fall and the gardener neglects it, it becomes a tree, giving shade and fruit to people across a wide area.