Spiritual Laws

When the act of reflection takes place in the mind, when we look at ourselves in the light of thought, we discover that our life is embosomed in beauty. Behind us, as we go, all things assume pleasing forms, as clouds do far off. Not only things familiar and stale, but even the tragic and terrible are comely as they take their place in the pictures of memory. The river-bank, the weed at the water-side, the old house, the foolish person, however neglected in the passing, have a grace in the past. Even the corpse that has lain in the chambers has added a solemn ornament to the house. The soul will not know either deformity or pain. If in the hours of clear reason we should speak the severest truth, we should say that we had never made a sacrifice. In these hours the mind seems so great that nothing can be taken from us that seems much. All loss, all pain, is particular; the universe remains to the heart unhurt. Neither vexations nor calamities abate our trust. No man ever stated his griefs as lightly as he might. Allow for exaggeration in the most patient and sorely ridden hack that ever was driven. For it is only the finite that has wrought and suffered; the infinite lies stretched in smiling repose.

When we reflect and examine ourselves in the light of thought, we discover that our lives are surrounded by beauty. As we move on, everything behind us takes on a pleasing form, like clouds in the distance. Not only familiar and stale things, but even tragic and terrible ones become beautiful in the pictures of memory. The riverbank, the weed by the water, the old house, the foolish person, all have a grace in the past, however little attention we paid them at the time. Even a corpse that has lain in the house has added a solemn beauty to it. The soul will not recognize ugliness or pain. In moments of clear reason, if we spoke the hardest truth, we would say that we had never made a sacrifice. At such times, the mind seems so great that nothing taken from us seems like much. All loss and all pain affect only particular things. The universe remains unharmed in our hearts. Neither troubles nor disasters diminish our trust. No one has ever spoken of their griefs as lightly as they might have. Even the most patient and badly overworked horse that ever pulled a carriage exaggerates its suffering. For only the finite part of us has worked and suffered. The infinite lies stretched out in smiling repose.

The intellectual life may be kept clean and healthful if man will live the life of nature and not import into his mind difficulties which are none of his. No man need be perplexed in his speculations. Let him do and say what strictly belongs to him, and though very ignorant of books, his nature shall not yield him any intellectual obstructions and doubts. Our young people are diseased with the theological problems of original sin, origin of evil, predestination and the like. These never presented a practical difficulty to any man,—never darkened across any man’s road who did not go out of his way to seek them. These are the soul’s mumps and measles and whooping-coughs, and those who have not caught them cannot describe their health or prescribe the cure. A simple mind will not know these enemies. It is quite another thing that he should be able to give account of his faith and expound to another the theory of his self-union and freedom. This requires rare gifts. Yet without this self-knowledge there may be a sylvan strength and integrity in that which he is. “A few strong instincts and a few plain rules” suffice us.

Intellectual life can remain clean and healthy if a person lives in harmony with nature and does not take on other people’s difficulties. No one needs to be puzzled by abstract questions. Let a person do and say what truly belongs to them. Then, even if they know very little about books, their nature will not give them intellectual obstacles or doubts. Our young people are afflicted by theological problems like original sin, the origin of evil, and predestination. These have never presented anyone with a practical difficulty. They have never darkened the path of anyone who did not go out of their way to seek them. These problems are the soul’s mumps, measles, and whooping cough. Those who have not caught them cannot describe their own health or prescribe a cure. A simple mind will not know these enemies. It is quite another thing to explain one’s faith and set out a theory of one’s inner unity and freedom. That requires rare gifts. Yet even without this self-knowledge, a person may have a natural strength and integrity. “A few strong instincts and a few plain rules” are enough for us.

My will never gave the images in my mind the rank they now take. The regular course of studies, the years of academical and professional education have not yielded me better facts than some idle books under the bench at the Latin School. What we do not call education is more precious than that which we call so. We form no guess, at the time of receiving a thought, of its comparative value. And education often wastes its effort in attempts to thwart and balk this natural magnetism, which is sure to select what belongs to it.

I did not choose how important the images in my mind have become. Years of formal study, including academic and professional training, have taught me no better facts than some casual reading. Those books lay under the bench at the Latin School. What we do not call education is more precious than what we do call education. When we receive a thought, we have no idea how valuable it is compared with others. Yet education often wastes its efforts trying to resist and obstruct this natural magnetism, which will surely select what belongs to it.

In like manner our moral nature is vitiated by any interference of our will. People represent virtue as a struggle, and take to themselves great airs upon their attainments, and the question is everywhere vexed when a noble nature is commended, whether the man is not better who strives with temptation. But there is no merit in the matter. Either God is there or he is not there. We love characters in proportion as they are impulsive and spontaneous. The less a man thinks or knows about his virtues the better we like him. Timoleon’s victories are the best victories, which ran and flowed like Homer’s verses, Plutarch said. When we see a soul whose acts are all regal, graceful and pleasant as roses, we must thank God that such things can be and are, and not turn sourly on the angel and say ‘Crump is a better man with his grunting resistance to all his native devils.’

In the same way, our moral nature is spoiled whenever our will interferes. People portray virtue as a struggle and make a great show of their achievements. Whenever a noble nature is praised, people everywhere debate whether someone who struggles against temptation is better. But there is no question of merit here. Either God is there or he is not. We love people in proportion to how impulsive and spontaneous they are. The less a person thinks or knows about their virtues, the better we like them. Timoleon’s victories are the best kind of victories. As Plutarch said, they ran and flowed like Homer’s verses. When we see a soul whose acts are all regal, graceful, and pleasant as roses, we should thank God that such things can exist and do exist. We should not turn bitterly on the angel and say, ‘Crump is a better man, grunting as he resists all his inborn devils.’

Not less conspicuous is the preponderance of nature over will in all practical life. There is less intention in history than we ascribe to it. We impute deep-laid far-sighted plans to Cæsar and Napoleon; but the best of their power was in nature, not in them. Men of an extraordinary success, in their honest moments, have always sung, ‘Not unto us, not unto us.’ According to the faith of their times they have built altars to Fortune, or to Destiny, or to St. Julian. Their success lay in their parallelism to the course of thought, which found in them an unobstructed channel; and the wonders of which they were the visible conductors seemed to the eye their deed. Did the wires generate the galvanism? It is even true that there was less in them on which they could reflect than in another; as the virtue of a pipe is to be smooth and hollow. That which externally seemed will and immovableness was willingness and self-annihilation. Could Shakspeare give a theory of Shakspeare? Could ever a man of prodigious mathematical genius convey to others any insight into his methods? If he could communicate that secret it would instantly lose its exaggerated value, blending with the daylight and the vital energy the power to stand and to go.

Nature’s power over will is just as evident throughout practical life. There is less intention behind history than we attribute to it. We credit Cæsar and Napoleon with deeply planned, far-sighted designs. But the greater part of their power lay in nature, not in themselves. In their honest moments, extraordinarily successful people have always sung, ‘Not unto us, not unto us.’ According to the beliefs of their times, they have built altars to Fortune, Destiny, or St. Julian. They succeeded because they moved in step with the course of thought, which flowed through them without obstruction. They visibly conveyed its wonders, so those wonders appeared to be their own doing. Did the wires generate the electricity? Indeed, they had less in themselves to reflect on than another person does. They were like a pipe, whose virtue is to be smooth and hollow. What looked from the outside like willpower and unshakable resolve was willingness and the surrender of self. Could Shakspeare explain Shakspeare? Could anyone with extraordinary mathematical genius ever give others insight into his methods? If he could share that secret, it would instantly lose its exaggerated value. It would become as ordinary as daylight, vital energy, and the power to stand and walk.

The lesson is forcibly taught by these observations that our life might be much easier and simpler than we make it; that the world might be a happier place than it is; that there is no need of struggles, convulsions, and despairs, of the wringing of the hands and the gnashing of the teeth; that we miscreate our own evils. We interfere with the optimism of nature; for whenever we get this vantage-ground of the past, or of a wiser mind in the present, we are able to discern that we are begirt with laws which execute themselves.

These observations teach a powerful lesson. Our lives could be much easier and simpler than we make them. The world could be a happier place. There is no need for struggles, upheavals, and despair, for wringing our hands and gnashing our teeth. We create our own evils. We interfere with nature’s optimism. For whenever we gain the perspective of the past, or of a wiser mind in the present, we can see that we are surrounded by laws that carry themselves out.

The face of external nature teaches the same lesson. Nature will not have us fret and fume. She does not like our benevolence or our learning much better than she likes our frauds and wars. When we come out of the caucus, or the bank, or the Abolition-convention, or the Temperance-meeting, or the Transcendental club into the fields and woods, she says to us, ‘So hot? my little Sir.’

The natural world teaches the same lesson. Nature does not want us to fret and fume. She likes our charitable work and our learning little better than our frauds and wars. We leave the caucus, the bank, the Abolition-convention, the Temperance-meeting, or the Transcendental club and enter the fields and woods. There she says to us, ‘So worked up, my little sir?’

We are full of mechanical actions. We must needs intermeddle and have things in our own way, until the sacrifices and virtues of society are odious. Love should make joy; but our benevolence is unhappy. Our Sunday-schools and churches and pauper-societies are yokes to the neck. We pain ourselves to please nobody. There are natural ways of arriving at the same ends at which these aim, but do not arrive. Why should all virtue work in one and the same way? Why should all give dollars? It is very inconvenient to us country folk, and we do not think any good will come of it. We have not dollars; merchants have; let them give them. Farmers will give corn; poets will sing; women will sew; laborers will lend a hand; the children will bring flowers. And why drag this dead weight of a Sunday-school over the whole Christendom? It is natural and beautiful that childhood should inquire and maturity should teach; but it is time enough to answer questions when they are asked. Do not shut up the young people against their will in a pew and force the children to ask them questions for an hour against their will.

We go through so many actions mechanically. We insist on interfering and having things our own way, until society’s sacrifices and virtues become hateful. Love should bring joy, but our efforts to do good make us unhappy. Our Sunday schools, churches, and societies for the poor are burdens around our necks. We put ourselves through pain without pleasing anyone. There are natural ways to achieve the same goals these institutions aim for, but fail to reach. Why should all virtue take the same form? Why should everyone give dollars? It is very inconvenient for us country folk, and we do not think any good will come of it. We do not have dollars. Merchants do, so let them give dollars. Farmers will give corn. Poets will sing. Women will sew. Laborers will lend a hand. Children will bring flowers. And why drag the dead weight of Sunday school across the whole Christian world? It is natural and beautiful for children to ask questions and adults to teach. But there is time enough to answer questions when children ask them. Do not shut young people in a pew against their will and force children to question them for an hour against their will.

If we look wider, things are all alike; laws and letters and creeds and modes of living seem a travesty of truth. Our society is encumbered by ponderous machinery, which resembles the endless aqueducts which the Romans built over hill and dale and which are superseded by the discovery of the law that water rises to the level of its source. It is a Chinese wall which any nimble Tartar can leap over. It is a standing army, not so good as a peace. It is a graduated, titled, richly appointed empire, quite superfluous when town-meetings are found to answer just as well.

If we look more broadly, everything is alike. Laws, literature, beliefs, and ways of living all seem to mock the truth. Our society is weighed down by heavy machinery. It resembles the endless aqueducts the Romans built over hills and valleys. Those aqueducts were made obsolete by the discovery that water rises to the level of its source. Society is like a Chinese wall that any nimble Tartar can leap over. It is like a standing army, not as good as peace. It is an empire with ranks, titles, and rich furnishings, made entirely unnecessary when town meetings work just as well.

Let us draw a lesson from nature, which always works by short ways. When the fruit is ripe, it falls. When the fruit is despatched, the leaf falls. The circuit of the waters is mere falling. The walking of man and all animals is a falling forward. All our manual labor and works of strength, as prying, splitting, digging, rowing and so forth, are done by dint of continual falling, and the globe, earth, moon, comet, sun, star, fall for ever and ever.

Let us learn from nature, which always takes the shortest path. When fruit is ripe, it falls. When the fruit is gone, the leaf falls. The cycle of water is simply falling. People and all animals walk by falling forward. All our manual labor and feats of strength depend on continuous falling. This includes prying, splitting, digging, rowing, and so on. And the globe, the earth, the moon, comets, the sun, and stars fall forever and ever.

The simplicity of the universe is very different from the simplicity of a machine. He who sees moral nature out and out and thoroughly knows how knowledge is acquired and character formed, is a pedant. The simplicity of nature is not that which may easily be read, but is inexhaustible. The last analysis can no wise be made. We judge of a man’s wisdom by his hope, knowing that the perception of the inexhaustibleness of nature is an immortal youth. The wild fertility of nature is felt in comparing our rigid names and reputations with our fluid consciousness. We pass in the world for sects and schools, for erudition and piety, and we are all the time jejune babes. One sees very well how Pyrrhonism grew up. Every man sees that he is that middle point whereof every thing may be affirmed and denied with equal reason. He is old, he is young, he is very wise, he is altogether ignorant. He hears and feels what you say of the seraphim, and of the tin-peddler. There is no permanent wise man except in the figment of the Stoics. We side with the hero, as we read or paint, against the coward and the robber; but we have been ourselves that coward and robber, and shall be again,—not in the low circumstance, but in comparison with the grandeurs possible to the soul.

The simplicity of the universe is very different from the simplicity of a machine. Anyone who claims to see moral nature completely and fully understand how knowledge is acquired and character formed is a pedant. Nature’s simplicity is not easy to read. It is inexhaustible, and no final analysis of it can ever be made. We judge a person’s wisdom by their hope. We know that seeing nature’s inexhaustible richness is a source of immortal youth. We feel nature’s wild fertility when we compare our fixed names and reputations with our ever-changing awareness. The world takes us for representatives of sects and schools, for learned and devout people. Yet all the while we are inexperienced infants. It is easy to see how Pyrrhonism, the philosophy of skepticism, arose. Every person sees that they are a middle point about which anything can be affirmed or denied with equal reason. A person is old and young, very wise and completely ignorant. A person hears and feels what you say about the seraphim and the tin-peddler. There is no permanently wise person except in the Stoics’ imagination. When we read or paint, we side with the hero against the coward and the robber. But we ourselves have been that coward and robber, and we shall be again. Not in those low circumstances, but in comparison with the greatness possible to the soul.

A little consideration of what takes place around us every day would show us that a higher law than that of our will regulates events; that our painful labors are unnecessary and fruitless; that only in our easy, simple, spontaneous action are we strong, and by contenting ourselves with obedience we become divine. Belief and love,—a believing love will relieve us of a vast load of care. O my brothers, God exists. There is a soul at the centre of nature and over the will of every man, so that none of us can wrong the universe. It has so infused its strong enchantment into nature that we prosper when we accept its advice, and when we struggle to wound its creatures our hands are glued to our sides, or they beat our own breasts. The whole course of things goes to teach us faith. We need only obey. There is guidance for each of us, and by lowly listening we shall hear the right word. Why need you choose so painfully your place and occupation and associates and modes of action and of entertainment? Certainly there is a possible right for you that precludes the need of balance and wilful election. For you there is a reality, a fit place and congenial duties. Place yourself in the middle of the stream of power and wisdom which animates all whom it floats, and you are without effort impelled to truth, to right and a perfect contentment. Then you put all gainsayers in the wrong. Then you are the world, the measure of right, of truth, of beauty. If we will not be mar-plots with our miserable interferences, the work, the society, letters, arts, science, religion of men would go on far better than now, and the heaven predicted from the beginning of the world, and still predicted from the bottom of the heart, would organize itself, as do now the rose and the air and the sun.

A little thought about what happens around us every day would show us that a law higher than our will governs events. It would show us that our painful labors are unnecessary and fruitless. We are strong only when we act easily, simply, and spontaneously. By being content to obey, we become divine. Belief and love, a believing love, will free us from a vast burden of care. Oh, my brothers, God exists. There is a soul at the center of nature and above every person's will. So none of us can harm the universe. This soul has filled nature with its powerful enchantment. We prosper when we accept its advice. When we try to hurt its creatures, our hands are stuck to our sides, or they beat our own chests. The whole course of events teaches us to have faith. We need only obey. Each of us has guidance, and if we listen humbly, we will hear the right word. Why do you need to struggle so hard to choose your place, work, companions, actions, and entertainments? Surely there is a right path open to you that makes it unnecessary to weigh options and choose by force of will. For you, there is a reality, a fitting place, and duties suited to you. Put yourself in the middle of the stream of power and wisdom that gives life to everyone it carries. Then, without effort, you will be carried toward truth, right, and perfect contentment. Then you prove all who disagree with you wrong. Then you are the world, the measure of what is right, true, and beautiful. If we would stop spoiling things with our miserable interference, human work, society, literature, art, science, and religion would go on far better than they do now. And heaven would come into being by itself, as the rose, the air, and the sun do now. Heaven has been foretold since the beginning of the world, and it is still foretold from the depths of the heart.

I say, do not choose; but that is a figure of speech by which I would distinguish what is commonly called choice among men, and which is a partial act, the choice of the hands, of the eyes, of the appetites, and not a whole act of the man. But that which I call right or goodness, is the choice of my constitution; and that which I call heaven, and inwardly aspire after, is the state or circumstance desirable to my constitution; and the action which I in all my years tend to do, is the work for my faculties. We must hold a man amenable to reason for the choice of his daily craft or profession. It is not an excuse any longer for his deeds that they are the custom of his trade. What business has he with an evil trade? Has he not a calling in his character?

I say, do not choose. But I use this expression to distinguish ordinary human choice from something else. Ordinary choice is a partial act, made by the hands, the eyes, or the appetites. It is not an act of the whole person. What I call right or goodness is the choice of my whole nature. What I call heaven, and inwardly long for, is the condition or circumstance my whole nature desires. And the action I tend toward throughout my life is the work suited to my abilities. We must hold a person answerable to reason for their choice of daily work or profession. It is no longer an excuse for their deeds to say those deeds are customary in their trade. What business do they have in an evil trade? Does their character not give them a calling?

Each man has his own vocation. The talent is the call. There is one direction in which all space is open to him. He has faculties silently inviting him thither to endless exertion. He is like a ship in a river; he runs against obstructions on every side but one, on that side all obstruction is taken away and he sweeps serenely over a deepening channel into an infinite sea. This talent and this call depend on his organization, or the mode in which the general soul incarnates itself in him. He inclines to do something which is easy to him and good when it is done, but which no other man can do. He has no rival. For the more truly he consults his own powers, the more difference will his work exhibit from the work of any other. His ambition is exactly proportioned to his powers. The height of the pinnacle is determined by the breadth of the base. Every man has this call of the power to do somewhat unique, and no man has any other call. The pretence that he has another call, a summons by name and personal election and outward “signs that mark him extraordinary, and not in the roll of common men,” is fanaticism, and betrays obtuseness to perceive that there is one mind in all the individuals, and no respect of persons therein.

Each person has a vocation. Talent is the call. There is one direction in which all space lies open to them. Their abilities silently invite them to go that way and keep striving without end. They are like a ship in a river. The ship meets obstacles on every side but one. On that side, every obstacle is removed, and the ship sails calmly through a deepening channel into an infinite sea. This talent and this call depend on a person’s nature, or on how the universal soul takes form in them. Each person is drawn to do something that comes easily to them and is good when done. Yet no one else can do it. They have no rival. For the more faithfully they follow their own abilities, the more their work will differ from everyone else’s. Their ambition is exactly matched to their abilities. The height of the peak depends on the breadth of its base. Everyone has this call, the power to do something unique, and no one has any other call. Some pretend they have another call. They claim they have been summoned by name and personally chosen, with outward “signs that mark him extraordinary, and not in the roll of common men.” This is fanaticism. It reveals an inability to see that one mind exists in all individuals and shows no favoritism among them.

By doing his work he makes the need felt which he can supply, and creates the taste by which he is enjoyed. By doing his own work he unfolds himself. It is the vice of our public speaking that it has not abandonment. Somewhere, not only every orator but every man should let out all the length of all the reins; should find or make a frank and hearty expression of what force and meaning is in him. The common experience is that the man fits himself as well as he can to the customary details of that work or trade he falls into, and tends it as a dog turns a spit. Then is he a part of the machine he moves; the man is lost. Until he can manage to communicate himself to others in his full stature and proportion, he does not yet find his vocation. He must find in that an outlet for his character, so that he may justify his work to their eyes. If the labor is mean, let him by his thinking and character make it liberal. Whatever he knows and thinks, whatever in his apprehension is worth doing, that let him communicate, or men will never know and honor him aright. Foolish, whenever you take the meanness and formality of that thing you do, instead of converting it into the obedient spiracle of your character and aims.

By doing his work, a man makes people feel the need he can meet. He also creates the taste that allows people to appreciate him. By doing his own work, he reveals himself. The fault of our public speaking is that it lacks abandon. Somewhere, not only every speaker but every man should give himself completely free rein. He should find or create a frank and wholehearted way to express all the force and meaning within him. Usually, a man adapts himself as best he can to the customary details of whatever job or trade he happens to enter. He goes about it like a dog turning a roasting spit. Then he becomes part of the machine he operates, and the man is lost. Until he can fully convey himself to others, in his true stature and proportion, he has not yet found his vocation. He must find an outlet for his character in his work, so that he can justify his work in their eyes. If the work is humble, let him make it noble through his thinking and character. Let him communicate whatever he knows and thinks, and whatever he believes is worth doing. Otherwise, people will never truly know and honor him. It is foolish to take on the meanness and formality of your work. Instead, make your work an obedient outlet for your character and aims.

We like only such actions as have already long had the praise of men, and do not perceive that any thing man can do may be divinely done. We think greatness entailed or organized in some places or duties, in certain offices or occasions, and do not see that Paganini can extract rapture from a catgut, and Eulenstein from a jews-harp, and a nimble-fingered lad out of shreds of paper with his scissors, and Landseer out of swine, and the hero out of the pitiful habitation and company in which he was hidden. What we call obscure condition or vulgar society is that condition and society whose poetry is not yet written, but which you shall presently make as enviable and renowned as any. In our estimates let us take a lesson from kings. The parts of hospitality, the connection of families, the impressiveness of death, and a thousand other things, royalty makes its own estimate of, and a royal mind will. To make habitually a new estimate,—that is elevation.

We admire only actions that people have praised for a long time. We do not see that anything a person does may be done divinely. We think greatness belongs to certain places or duties, offices or occasions. But Paganini can draw rapture from a catgut string, and Eulenstein from a jews-harp. A nimble-fingered boy can draw it from scraps of paper with his scissors, and Landseer from swine. And a hero can draw it from the poor home and company in which he was hidden. What we call an obscure position or common society is simply a life whose poetry has not yet been written. But you will soon make that life as enviable and renowned as any other. In making our judgments, let us learn from kings. Royalty makes its own judgments about hospitality, family ties, the solemnity of death, and a thousand other things. A royal mind does the same. To make a fresh judgment as a matter of habit is to be elevated.

What a man does, that he has. What has he to do with hope or fear? In himself is his might. Let him regard no good as solid but that which is in his nature and which must grow out of him as long as he exists. The goods of fortune may come and go like summer leaves; let him scatter them on every wind as the momentary signs of his infinite productiveness.

What a man does is what he has. Why should he hope or fear? His strength is within him. He should consider nothing truly secure except the good in his own nature. That good must grow from within him as long as he exists. The goods of fortune may come and go like summer leaves. Let him scatter them to every wind as passing signs of his infinite capacity to produce.

He may have his own. A man’s genius, the quality that differences him from every other, the susceptibility to one class of influences, the selection of what is fit for him, the rejection of what is unfit, determines for him the character of the universe. A man is a method, a progressive arrangement; a selecting principle, gathering his like to him wherever he goes. He takes only his own out of the multiplicity that sweeps and circles round him. He is like one of those booms which are set out from the shore on rivers to catch drift-wood, or like the loadstone amongst splinters of steel. Those facts, words, persons, which dwell in his memory without his being able to say why, remain because they have a relation to him not less real for being as yet unapprehended. They are symbols of value to him as they can interpret parts of his consciousness which he would vainly seek words for in the conventional images of books and other minds. What attracts my attention shall have it, as I will go to the man who knocks at my door, whilst a thousand persons as worthy go by it, to whom I give no regard. It is enough that these particulars speak to me. A few anecdotes, a few traits of character, manners, face, a few incidents, have an emphasis in your memory out of all proportion to their apparent significance if you measure them by the ordinary standards. They relate to your gift. Let them have their weight, and do not reject them and cast about for illustration and facts more usual in literature. What your heart thinks great is great. The soul’s emphasis is always right.

He may have what is his own. A man’s genius is the quality that sets him apart from everyone else. It makes him receptive to certain influences, choosing what suits him and rejecting what does not. It determines the character of the universe for him. A man is a method, an arrangement that develops over time. He is a principle of selection, drawing what is like him wherever he goes. From the multitude of things swirling around him, he takes only what is his own. He is like a boom placed in a river from the shore to catch driftwood. Or he is like a magnet among splinters of steel. Certain facts, words, and people stay in his memory, though he cannot say why. They remain because they have a connection to him that is real, even if he does not yet understand it. They are symbols of value to him. They can explain parts of his consciousness that he would search for in vain among the familiar images of books and other minds. Whatever attracts my attention will have it. I will go to the person who knocks at my door, while a thousand equally worthy people pass by unnoticed. It is enough that these particular things speak to me. A few anecdotes, traits of character, manners, faces, or incidents stand out in your memory. They seem far more important than ordinary standards would suggest. They relate to your gift. Give them their due weight. Do not reject them and search for examples and facts more commonly found in literature. What your heart thinks great is great. The soul’s emphasis is always right.

Over all things that are agreeable to his nature and genius the man has the highest right. Everywhere he may take what belongs to his spiritual estate, nor can he take any thing else though all doors were open, nor can all the force of men hinder him from taking so much. It is vain to attempt to keep a secret from one who has a right to know it. It will tell itself. That mood into which a friend can bring us is his dominion over us. To the thoughts of that state of mind he has a right. All the secrets of that state of mind he can compel. This is a law which statesmen use in practice. All the terrors of the French Republic, which held Austria in awe, were unable to command her diplomacy. But Napoleon sent to Vienna M. de Narbonne, one of the old noblesse, with the morals, manners and name of that interest, saying that it was indispensable to send to the old aristocracy of Europe men of the same connection, which, in fact, constitutes a sort of free-masonry. M. de Narbonne in less than a fortnight penetrated all the secrets of the imperial cabinet.

A man has the highest right to everything that suits his nature and genius. Everywhere, he may take what belongs to his spiritual estate. He cannot take anything else, even if all doors are open to him. Nor can all the force of other men prevent him from taking what belongs to him. It is useless to keep a secret from someone who has a right to know it. The secret will reveal itself. When a friend can bring us into a particular mood, that mood is his domain. He has a right to the thoughts that come with it. He can draw out all its secrets. Statesmen put this law into practice. All the terrors of the French Republic held Austria in awe, but they could not command its diplomacy. Napoleon, however, sent M. de Narbonne to Vienna. He was a member of the old nobility, with the morals, manners, and name of that class. Napoleon said it was essential to send men with the same ties to the old aristocracy of Europe. Those ties, in fact, form a kind of free-masonry. In less than two weeks, M. de Narbonne uncovered all the secrets of the imperial cabinet.

Nothing seems so easy as to speak and to be understood. Yet a man may come to find that the strongest of defences and of ties,—that he has been understood; and he who has received an opinion may come to find it the most inconvenient of bonds.

Nothing seems easier than speaking and being understood. Yet a person may come to find that the strongest defense and bond: being understood. And someone who has received an opinion may come to find that opinion a most inconvenient bond.

If a teacher have any opinion which he wishes to conceal, his pupils will become as fully indoctrinated into that as into any which he publishes. If you pour water into a vessel twisted into coils and angles, it is vain to say, I will pour it only into this or that;—it will find its level in all. Men feel and act the consequences of your doctrine without being able to show how they follow. Show us an arc of the curve, and a good mathematician will find out the whole figure. We are always reasoning from the seen to the unseen. Hence the perfect intelligence that subsists between wise men of remote ages. A man cannot bury his meanings so deep in his book but time and like-minded men will find them. Plato had a secret doctrine, had he? What secret can he conceal from the eyes of Bacon? of Montaigne? of Kant? Therefore, Aristotle said of his works, “They are published and not published.”

If a teacher has an opinion he wants to conceal, his pupils will absorb it just as fully as any opinion he expresses. If you pour water into a vessel bent into coils and angles, you cannot make it fill only one part or another. The water will find its level throughout the vessel. People feel and act on the consequences of your teaching without being able to show how those consequences follow. Show a good mathematician part of a curve, and he can work out the whole figure. We are always reasoning from what we see to what we cannot see. This is why wise people from distant ages understand one another so completely. A man cannot bury his meanings so deeply in his book that time and like-minded people cannot find them. Plato had a secret doctrine, did he? What secret can he conceal from the eyes of Bacon? Or Montaigne? Or Kant? That is why Aristotle said of his works, “They are published and not published.”

No man can learn what he has not preparation for learning, however near to his eyes is the object. A chemist may tell his most precious secrets to a carpenter, and he shall be never the wiser,—the secrets he would not utter to a chemist for an estate. God screens us evermore from premature ideas. Our eyes are holden that we cannot see things that stare us in the face, until the hour arrives when the mind is ripened; then we behold them, and the time when we saw them not is like a dream.

No one can learn what they are not prepared to learn, however close the object may be to their eyes. A chemist may tell a carpenter his most precious secrets, and the carpenter will be none the wiser. Yet the chemist would not tell those secrets to another chemist for an estate. God always shields us from ideas we are not yet ready for. Our eyes are held shut, so we cannot see things staring us in the face until our minds are ready. Then we see them, and the time when we could not see them seems like a dream.

Not in nature but in man is all the beauty and worth he sees. The world is very empty, and is indebted to this gilding, exalting soul for all its pride. “Earth fills her lap with splendors” not her own. The vale of Tempe, Tivoli and Rome are earth and water, rocks and sky. There are as good earth and water in a thousand places, yet how unaffecting!

All the beauty and worth a person sees lie not in nature but in the person. The world is very empty. It owes all its splendor to the soul that gilds and elevates it. “Earth fills her lap with splendors” not her own. The vale of Tempe, Tivoli and Rome are earth and water, rocks and sky. A thousand places have earth and water just as good, yet they leave us unmoved!

People are not the better for the sun and moon, the horizon and the trees; as it is not observed that the keepers of Roman galleries or the valets of painters have any elevation of thought, or that librarians are wiser men than others. There are graces in the demeanor of a polished and noble person which are lost upon the eye of a churl. These are like the stars whose light has not yet reached us.

People are not made better by the sun and moon, the horizon and the trees. Likewise, the keepers of Roman galleries and painters’ assistants are not known for elevated thoughts. Nor are librarians wiser than other people. A refined and noble person has graceful ways that a rude person cannot appreciate. These graces are like stars whose light has not yet reached us.

He may see what he maketh. Our dreams are the sequel of our waking knowledge. The visions of the night bear some proportion to the visions of the day. Hideous dreams are exaggerations of the sins of the day. We see our evil affections embodied in bad physiognomies. On the Alps the traveller sometimes beholds his own shadow magnified to a giant, so that every gesture of his hand is terrific. “My children,” said an old man to his boys scared by a figure in the dark entry, “my children, you will never see any thing worse than yourselves.” As in dreams, so in the scarcely less fluid events of the world every man sees himself in colossal, without knowing that it is himself. The good, compared to the evil which he sees, is as his own good to his own evil. Every quality of his mind is magnified in some one acquaintance, and every emotion of his heart in some one. He is like a quincunx of trees, which counts five,—east, west, north, or south; or an initial, medial, and terminal acrostic. And why not? He cleaves to one person and avoids another, according to their likeness or unlikeness to himself, truly seeking himself in his associates and moreover in his trade and habits and gestures and meats and drinks, and comes at last to be faithfully represented by every view you take of his circumstances.

He may see what he creates. Our dreams follow from what we know while awake. The visions of the night reflect, to some degree, the visions of the day. Horrible dreams exaggerate the sins of the day. We see our evil feelings take shape in ugly faces. In the Alps, a traveler sometimes sees his own shadow enlarged into a giant, making every movement of his hand terrifying. “My children,” an old man said to his boys, who were frightened by a figure in the dark entryway, “my children, you will never see anything worse than yourselves.” As in dreams, so in the events of the world, which are almost as fluid, every man sees himself enlarged to enormous size without recognizing himself. The good he sees, compared with the evil, is in the same proportion as the good and evil in himself. Each quality of his mind is magnified in one acquaintance or another, as is each emotion of his heart. He is like five trees arranged with one in the center and one at each corner of a square. From east, west, north, or south, there are always five. Or he is like an acrostic that spells out the same message in its first, middle, and last letters. And why not? He attaches himself to one person and avoids another according to their likeness or difference from himself. He is really seeking himself in his companions, as well as in his work, habits, gestures, food, and drink. In the end, every view of his circumstances faithfully represents him.

He may read what he writes. What can we see or acquire but what we are? You have observed a skilful man reading Virgil. Well, that author is a thousand books to a thousand persons. Take the book into your two hands and read your eyes out, you will never find what I find. If any ingenious reader would have a monopoly of the wisdom or delight he gets, he is as secure now the book is Englished, as if it were imprisoned in the Pelews’ tongue. It is with a good book as it is with good company. Introduce a base person among gentlemen, it is all to no purpose; he is not their fellow. Every society protects itself. The company is perfectly safe, and he is not one of them, though his body is in the room.

He may read what he writes. What can we see or gain except what we are? You have seen a skilled reader reading Virgil. Well, Virgil is a thousand books to a thousand people. Hold the book in both hands and read until your eyes wear out. You will never find what I find. Suppose a perceptive reader wants exclusive possession of the wisdom or delight he gets from the book. He is just as secure now that the book is in English as if it were confined to the Pelews’ language. A good book is like good company. Introduce a low person among gentlemen, and it is all to no purpose. He is not their equal. Every society protects itself. The company is perfectly safe, and he is not one of them, though his body is in the room.

What avails it to fight with the eternal laws of mind, which adjust the relation of all persons to each other by the mathematical measure of their havings and beings? Gertrude is enamored of Guy; how high, how aristocratic, how Roman his mien and manners! to live with him were life indeed, and no purchase is too great; and heaven and earth are moved to that end. Well, Gertrude has Guy; but what now avails how high, how aristocratic, how Roman his mien and manners, if his heart and aims are in the senate, in the theatre and in the billiard-room, and she has no aims, no conversation that can enchant her graceful lord?

What is the use of fighting the eternal laws of the mind? They determine how all people relate to one another, measuring exactly what each person has and is. Gertrude is in love with Guy. How noble, how aristocratic, how Roman his appearance and manners are! To live with him would be life itself, and no price is too high. Heaven and earth are moved to bring them together. Well, Gertrude has Guy. But what good are his noble, aristocratic, Roman appearance and manners now? His heart and ambitions lie in the senate, the theater, and the billiard room. And Gertrude has no ambitions or conversation that can enchant her graceful lord.

He shall have his own society. We can love nothing but nature. The most wonderful talents, the most meritorious exertions really avail very little with us; but nearness or likeness of nature,—how beautiful is the ease of its victory! Persons approach us, famous for their beauty, for their accomplishments, worthy of all wonder for their charms and gifts; they dedicate their whole skill to the hour and the company,—with very imperfect result. To be sure it would be ungrateful in us not to praise them loudly. Then, when all is done, a person of related mind, a brother or sister by nature, comes to us so softly and easily, so nearly and intimately, as if it were the blood in our proper veins, that we feel as if some one was gone, instead of another having come; we are utterly relieved and refreshed; it is a sort of joyful solitude. We foolishly think in our days of sin that we must court friends by compliance to the customs of society, to its dress, its breeding, and its estimates. But only that soul can be my friend which I encounter on the line of my own march, that soul to which I do not decline and which does not decline to me, but, native of the same celestial latitude, repeats in its own all my experience. The scholar forgets himself and apes the customs and costumes of the man of the world to deserve the smile of beauty, and follows some giddy girl, not yet taught by religious passion to know the noble woman with all that is serene, oracular and beautiful in her soul. Let him be great, and love shall follow him. Nothing is more deeply punished than the neglect of the affinities by which alone society should be formed, and the insane levity of choosing associates by others’ eyes.

He will have his own company. We can love nothing but nature. The most remarkable talents and the most worthy efforts really mean very little to us. But how beautifully and effortlessly a similar or kindred nature wins us over! People approach us who are famous for their beauty and accomplishments. Their charms and gifts deserve our full admiration. They devote all their skill to the occasion and the people present, but with very limited success. Of course, we would be ungrateful not to praise them loudly. Then, when all is over, someone of a kindred mind, a brother or sister by nature, comes to us. This person comes so gently and easily, so close and intimately, like the blood in our own veins. We feel as if someone has left rather than someone else having arrived. We feel utterly relieved and refreshed. It is a kind of joyful solitude. In our sinful days, we foolishly think we must win friends by following society's customs, its dress, manners, and judgments. But only the soul I meet on the path I am already following can be my friend. I do not lower myself to meet that soul, nor does it lower itself to meet me. Instead, we come from the same heavenly latitude, and that soul's experience echoes all of mine. The scholar forgets himself and imitates the manners and dress of a worldly man to earn a beautiful woman's smile. He pursues some flighty girl, not yet taught by religious passion to recognize the noble woman. He has yet to recognize all that is serene, prophetic, and beautiful in her soul. Let him be great, and love will follow him. Nothing is punished more severely than neglecting the natural affinities that alone should bring people together. Nothing is punished more severely than the mad carelessness of choosing companions through the eyes of others.

He may set his own rate. It is a maxim worthy of all acceptation that a man may have that allowance he takes. Take the place and attitude which belong to you, and all men acquiesce. The world must be just. It leaves every man, with profound unconcern, to set his own rate. Hero or driveller, it meddles not in the matter. It will certainly accept your own measure of your doing and being, whether you sneak about and deny your own name, or whether you see your work produced to the concave sphere of the heavens, one with the revolution of the stars.

A man may set his own value. One principle deserves universal acceptance: a man may claim the standing he chooses. Take the place and attitude that belong to you, and everyone accepts them. The world must be fair. It leaves every man to set his own value, with complete indifference. Whether he is a hero or a fool, the world does not interfere. It will certainly accept your own assessment of what you do and who you are. That is true whether you sneak around and deny your own name, or see your work reach the curved vault of heaven, in harmony with the revolution of the stars.

The same reality pervades all teaching. The man may teach by doing, and not otherwise. If he can communicate himself he can teach, but not by words. He teaches who gives, and he learns who receives. There is no teaching until the pupil is brought into the same state or principle in which you are; a transfusion takes place; he is you and you are he; then is a teaching, and by no unfriendly chance or bad company can he ever quite lose the benefit. But your propositions run out of one ear as they ran in at the other. We see it advertised that Mr. Grand will deliver an oration on the Fourth of July, and Mr. Hand before the Mechanics’ Association, and we do not go thither, because we know that these gentlemen will not communicate their own character and experience to the company. If we had reason to expect such a confidence we should go through all inconvenience and opposition. The sick would be carried in litters. But a public oration is an escapade, a non-committal, an apology, a gag, and not a communication, not a speech, not a man.

The same reality runs through all teaching. A person can teach only by doing. If he can share himself, he can teach, but not through words alone. The one who gives teaches, and the one who receives learns. There is no teaching until the pupil reaches the same state or principle as the teacher. A transfusion takes place. He is you, and you are he. Then teaching occurs, and no bad luck or bad company can ever entirely take away its benefit. But your propositions go in one ear and out the other. We see an announcement that Mr. Grand will give an oration on the Fourth of July, and Mr. Hand will speak before the Mechanics’ Association. We do not go because we know these gentlemen will not share their own character and experience with the audience. If we had reason to expect such openness, we would go despite every inconvenience and obstacle. The sick would be carried on litters. But a public oration is an escapade, a way to avoid commitment, an apology, a gag. It is not a communication, not a speech, not a man.

A like Nemesis presides over all intellectual works. We have yet to learn that the thing uttered in words is not therefore affirmed. It must affirm itself, or no forms of logic or of oath can give it evidence. The sentence must also contain its own apology for being spoken.

A similar force of retribution governs all intellectual works. We have yet to learn that putting something into words does not make it true. It must prove itself true. No logic or oath can supply that proof. A sentence must also contain its own reason for being spoken.

The effect of any writing on the public mind is mathematically measurable by its depth of thought. How much water does it draw? If it awaken you to think, if it lift you from your feet with the great voice of eloquence, then the effect is to be wide, slow, permanent, over the minds of men; if the pages instruct you not, they will die like flies in the hour. The way to speak and write what shall not go out of fashion is to speak and write sincerely. The argument which has not power to reach my own practice, I may well doubt will fail to reach yours. But take Sidney’s maxim:—“Look in thy heart, and write.” He that writes to himself writes to an eternal public. That statement only is fit to be made public which you have come at in attempting to satisfy your own curiosity. The writer who takes his subject from his ear and not from his heart, should know that he has lost as much as he seems to have gained, and when the empty book has gathered all its praise, and half the people say, ‘What poetry! what genius!’ it still needs fuel to make fire. That only profits which is profitable. Life alone can impart life; and though we should burst we can only be valued as we make ourselves valuable. There is no luck in literary reputation. They who make up the final verdict upon every book are not the partial and noisy readers of the hour when it appears, but a court as of angels, a public not to be bribed, not to be entreated and not to be overawed, decides upon every man’s title to fame. Only those books come down which deserve to last. Gilt edges, vellum and morocco, and presentation-copies to all the libraries will not preserve a book in circulation beyond its intrinsic date. It must go with all Walpole’s Noble and Royal Authors to its fate. Blackmore, Kotzebue, or Pollok may endure for a night, but Moses and Homer stand for ever. There are not in the world at any one time more than a dozen persons who read and understand Plato,—never enough to pay for an edition of his works; yet to every generation these come duly down, for the sake of those few persons, as if God brought them in his hand. “No book,” said Bentley, “was ever written down by any but itself.” The permanence of all books is fixed by no effort, friendly or hostile, but by their own specific gravity, or the intrinsic importance of their contents to the constant mind of man. “Do not trouble yourself too much about the light on your statue,” said Michael Angelo to the young sculptor; “the light of the public square will test its value.”

The effect of any writing on the public mind can be measured mathematically by the depth of its thought. How much water does it draw? If it awakens you to think, if its great eloquence lifts you off your feet, its effect will be wide, slow, and lasting in people’s minds. If its pages teach you nothing, they will die like flies within the hour. The way to speak and write what will never go out of fashion is to speak and write sincerely. If an argument cannot reach my own conduct, I may well doubt that it will reach yours. But take Sidney’s maxim: “Look in your heart, and write.” A person who writes for himself writes for an eternal public. Only a statement reached in trying to satisfy your own curiosity is fit to be made public. A writer who takes his subject from what he hears rather than from his heart should know this: he has lost as much as he seems to have gained. The empty book may gather all its praise, and half the people may say, “What poetry! What genius!” But it still needs fuel to make a fire. Only what is profitable brings profit. Life alone can give life. And though we should burst, we can be valued only as we make ourselves valuable. There is no luck in literary reputation. The final verdict on every book is not given by the biased, noisy readers of the moment when it appears. It is given by a court like a court of angels. This public cannot be bribed, pleaded with, or intimidated, and it decides every person’s claim to fame. Only books that deserve to last survive. Gilded edges, vellum and morocco bindings, and gift copies to every library will not keep a book in circulation beyond its natural lifespan. It must meet its fate along with all the writers in Walpole’s Noble and Royal Authors. Blackmore, Kotzebue, or Pollok may last for a night, but Moses and Homer stand forever. At any one time, there are no more than a dozen people in the world who read and understand Plato. There are never enough to pay for an edition of his works. Yet Plato’s works are duly passed down to every generation for the sake of those few people, as if God brought them in his hand. “No book,” said Bentley, “was ever written down by any but itself.” A book’s lasting power is determined by no effort, friendly or hostile. It is determined by the book’s own specific gravity, or the intrinsic importance of its contents to the enduring human mind. “Do not worry too much about the light on your statue,” Michael Angelo told the young sculptor. “The light of the public square will test its value.”

In like manner the effect of every action is measured by the depth of the sentiment from which it proceeds. The great man knew not that he was great. It took a century or two for that fact to appear. What he did, he did because he must; it was the most natural thing in the world, and grew out of the circumstances of the moment. But now, every thing he did, even to the lifting of his finger or the eating of bread, looks large, all-related, and is called an institution.

In the same way, the effect of every action is measured by the depth of the feeling behind it. The great man did not know he was great. It took a century or two for his greatness to become clear. He did what he did because he had to. His actions were the most natural things in the world, arising from the circumstances of the moment. But now, everything he did seems significant and connected to everything else, even lifting a finger or eating bread. Each action is called an institution.

These are the demonstrations in a few particulars of the genius of nature; they show the direction of the stream. But the stream is blood; every drop is alive. Truth has not single victories; all things are its organs,—not only dust and stones, but errors and lies. The laws of disease, physicians say, are as beautiful as the laws of health. Our philosophy is affirmative and readily accepts the testimony of negative facts, as every shadow points to the sun. By a divine necessity every fact in nature is constrained to offer its testimony.

These few examples show nature’s genius and reveal the direction of the stream. But the stream is blood, and every drop is alive. Truth does not win isolated victories. All things are its instruments, not only dust and stones, but errors and lies too. Physicians say the laws of disease are as beautiful as the laws of health. Our philosophy affirms truth and readily accepts the evidence of facts that seem to deny it. After all, every shadow points to the sun. By divine necessity, every fact in nature must offer its testimony.

Human character evermore publishes itself. The most fugitive deed and word, the mere air of doing a thing, the intimated purpose, expresses character. If you act you show character; if you sit still, if you sleep, you show it. You think because you have spoken nothing when others spoke, and have given no opinion on the times, on the church, on slavery, on marriage, on socialism, on secret societies, on the college, on parties and persons, that your verdict is still expected with curiosity as a reserved wisdom. Far otherwise; your silence answers very loud. You have no oracle to utter, and your fellow-men have learned that you cannot help them; for oracles speak. Doth not Wisdom cry and Understanding put forth her voice?

Human character always reveals itself. The briefest act or word, the very way you do something, or a hinted intention reveals character. If you act, you show your character. If you sit still or sleep, you show it too. You may say nothing when others speak and give no opinion on the times, the church, slavery, marriage, socialism, secret societies, the college, parties, or people. You think others are still curious to hear your judgment, as if you were holding back some wisdom. Quite the opposite. Your silence speaks very loudly. You have no revelation to offer, and others have learned that you cannot help them. For those with revelations to offer speak. Doesn’t Wisdom cry out? Doesn’t Understanding raise her voice?

Dreadful limits are set in nature to the powers of dissimulation. Truth tyrannizes over the unwilling members of the body. Faces never lie, it is said. No man need be deceived who will study the changes of expression. When a man speaks the truth in the spirit of truth, his eye is as clear as the heavens. When he has base ends and speaks falsely, the eye is muddy and sometimes asquint.

Nature sets severe limits on our ability to hide the truth. Truth rules over the body’s unwilling parts. People say that faces never lie. No one needs to be deceived if they study changes in expression. When a man speaks the truth in the spirit of truth, his eye is as clear as the heavens. When he has dishonorable aims and speaks falsely, his eye is clouded and sometimes looks sideways.

I have heard an experienced counsellor say that he never feared the effect upon a jury of a lawyer who does not believe in his heart that his client ought to have a verdict. If he does not believe it his unbelief will appear to the jury, despite all his protestations, and will become their unbelief. This is that law whereby a work of art, of whatever kind, sets us in the same state of mind wherein the artist was when he made it. That which we do not believe we cannot adequately say, though we may repeat the words never so often. It was this conviction which Swedenborg expressed when he described a group of persons in the spiritual world endeavoring in vain to articulate a proposition which they did not believe; but they could not, though they twisted and folded their lips even to indignation.

I once heard an experienced lawyer say he never feared a lawyer who did not truly believe his client deserved a favorable verdict. If the lawyer did not believe it, the jury would see his doubt despite all his protests. The jury would then come to doubt it too. The same law explains why a work of art, of any kind, puts us in the artist’s state of mind when creating it. We cannot adequately say what we do not believe, though we may repeat the words as often as we like. Swedenborg expressed this conviction when he described a group of people in the spiritual world. They tried in vain to say something they did not believe. They could not say it, though they twisted and folded their lips until they became indignant.

A man passes for that he is worth. Very idle is all curiosity concerning other people’s estimate of us, and all fear of remaining unknown is not less so. If a man know that he can do any thing,—that he can do it better than any one else,—he has a pledge of the acknowledgment of that fact by all persons. The world is full of judgment-days, and into every assembly that a man enters, in every action he attempts, he is gauged and stamped. In every troop of boys that whoop and run in each yard and square, a new-comer is as well and accurately weighed in the course of a few days and stamped with his right number, as if he had undergone a formal trial of his strength, speed and temper. A stranger comes from a distant school, with better dress, with trinkets in his pockets, with airs and pretensions; an older boy says to himself, ‘It’s of no use; we shall find him out to-morrow.’ ‘What has he done?’ is the divine question which searches men and transpierces every false reputation. A fop may sit in any chair of the world nor be distinguished for his hour from Homer and Washington; but there need never be any doubt concerning the respective ability of human beings. Pretension may sit still, but cannot act. Pretension never feigned an act of real greatness. Pretension never wrote an Iliad, nor drove back Xerxes, nor christianized the world, nor abolished slavery.

A man is recognized for what he is worth. It is pointless to wonder what other people think of us. The fear of remaining unknown is just as pointless. If a man knows he can do something better than anyone else, he has a guarantee that everyone will recognize it. The world is full of judgment days. In every gathering a man enters and every action he attempts, he is measured and given his due. In every group of boys shouting and running in a yard or square, a newcomer is assessed within a few days and given his proper rank. The assessment is as accurate as if he had undergone a formal test of his strength, speed, and temper. A stranger arrives from a distant school, better dressed, with trinkets in his pockets and an air of self-importance. An older boy says to himself, ‘It’s no use. We’ll find him out tomorrow.’ ‘What has he done?’ That is the divine question that examines men and pierces every false reputation. A dandy may sit in any seat in the world and, for an hour, seem no different from Homer or Washington. But there need never be any doubt about what each human being can do. Pretension can sit still, but it cannot act. Pretension has never produced even an imitation of an act of real greatness. Pretension never wrote an Iliad, drove back Xerxes, converted the world to Christianity, or abolished slavery.

As much virtue as there is, so much appears; as much goodness as there is, so much reverence it commands. All the devils respect virtue. The high, the generous, the self-devoted sect will always instruct and command mankind. Never was a sincere word utterly lost. Never a magnanimity fell to the ground, but there is some heart to greet and accept it unexpectedly. A man passes for that he is worth. What he is engraves itself on his face, on his form, on his fortunes, in letters of light. Concealment avails him nothing, boasting nothing. There is confession in the glances of our eyes, in our smiles, in salutations, and the grasp of hands. His sin bedaubs him, mars all his good impression. Men know not why they do not trust him, but they do not trust him. His vice glasses his eye, cuts lines of mean expression in his cheek, pinches the nose, sets the mark of the beast on the back of the head, and writes O fool! fool! on the forehead of a king.

Virtue shows itself wherever it exists, and goodness commands reverence in proportion to its extent. Even the devils respect virtue. Those who are noble, generous, and self-sacrificing will always teach and lead humanity. A sincere word is never completely lost. No act of generosity of spirit ever goes unrecognized. There is always some heart ready to welcome and accept it, even when we least expect it. A man is judged by what he is worth. What he is is written in letters of light on his face, his body, and his fortunes. Neither hiding nor boasting does him any good. We reveal ourselves in our glances, smiles, greetings, and handshakes. A man's sin stains him and spoils every good impression he makes. People do not know why they distrust him, but they do. His vice makes his eyes glassy. It cuts mean lines into his cheeks, pinches his nose, and sets the mark of the beast on the back of his head. It writes O fool! fool! on the forehead of a king.

If you would not be known to do any thing, never do it. A man may play the fool in the drifts of a desert, but every grain of sand shall seem to see. He may be a solitary eater, but he cannot keep his foolish counsel. A broken complexion, a swinish look, ungenerous acts and the want of due knowledge,—all blab. Can a cook, a Chiffinch, an Iachimo be mistaken for Zeno or Paul? Confucius exclaimed,—“How can a man be concealed? How can a man be concealed?”

If you do not want anyone to know you did something, never do it. A man may act foolishly among the desert dunes, but every grain of sand will seem to see him. He may eat alone, but he cannot keep his foolishness secret. Blemished skin, a piggish look, ungenerous actions, and a lack of proper knowledge all give him away. Can a cook, a Chiffinch, an Iachimo be mistaken for Zeno or Paul? Confucius exclaimed, “How can a man be concealed? How can a man be concealed?”

On the other hand, the hero fears not that if he withhold the avowal of a just and brave act it will go unwitnessed and unloved. One knows it,—himself,—and is pledged by it to sweetness of peace and to nobleness of aim which will prove in the end a better proclamation of it than the relating of the incident. Virtue is the adherence in action to the nature of things, and the nature of things makes it prevalent. It consists in a perpetual substitution of being for seeming, and with sublime propriety God is described as saying, I AM.

On the other hand, the hero does not fear that a just and brave act will go unnoticed and unloved if he keeps silent about it. He himself knows of the act. It commits him to a sweet peace and noble aims, which will ultimately proclaim it better than telling the story would. Virtue means acting in keeping with the nature of things, and the nature of things makes virtue prevail. Virtue consists in continually choosing being over seeming. So it is profoundly fitting that God is described as saying, I AM.

The lesson which these observations convey is, Be, and not seem. Let us acquiesce. Let us take our bloated nothingness out of the path of the divine circuits. Let us unlearn our wisdom of the world. Let us lie low in the Lord’s power and learn that truth alone makes rich and great.

The lesson of these observations is: Be, rather than seem. Let us accept things as they are. Let us move our inflated, insignificant selves out of the way of the divine order. Let us unlearn our worldly wisdom. Let us humble ourselves before the Lord’s power and learn that truth alone makes us rich and great.

If you visit your friend, why need you apologize for not having visited him, and waste his time and deface your own act? Visit him now. Let him feel that the highest love has come to see him, in thee its lowest organ. Or why need you torment yourself and friend by secret self-reproaches that you have not assisted him or complimented him with gifts and salutations heretofore? Be a gift and a benediction. Shine with real light and not with the borrowed reflection of gifts. Common men are apologies for men; they bow the head, excuse themselves with prolix reasons, and accumulate appearances because the substance is not.

If you visit your friend, why apologize for not visiting him before? Why waste his time and spoil your visit? Visit him now. Let him feel that the highest love has come to see him, with you as its humblest instrument. Why torment yourself and your friend with private guilt over not helping him or honoring him with gifts and greetings before? Be a gift and a blessing. Shine with your own light, not with the borrowed reflection of gifts. Ordinary people are poor excuses for human beings. They bow their heads, offer long explanations to excuse themselves, and pile up appearances because they lack substance.

We are full of these superstitions of sense, the worship of magnitude. We call the poet inactive, because he is not a president, a merchant, or a porter. We adore an institution, and do not see that it is founded on a thought which we have. But real action is in silent moments. The epochs of our life are not in the visible facts of our choice of a calling, our marriage, our acquisition of an office, and the like, but in a silent thought by the way-side as we walk; in a thought which revises our entire manner of life and says,—‘Thus hast thou done, but it were better thus.’ And all our after years, like menials, serve and wait on this, and according to their ability execute its will. This revisal or correction is a constant force, which, as a tendency, reaches through our lifetime. The object of the man, the aim of these moments, is to make daylight shine through him, to suffer the law to traverse his whole being without obstruction, so that on what point soever of his doing your eye falls it shall report truly of his character, whether it be his diet, his house, his religious forms, his society, his mirth, his vote, his opposition. Now he is not homogeneous, but heterogeneous, and the ray does not traverse; there are no thorough lights, but the eye of the beholder is puzzled, detecting many unlike tendencies and a life not yet at one.

We are full of these superstitions of the senses, this worship of size and importance. We call the poet inactive because he is not a president, a merchant, or a porter. We worship an institution and fail to see that it rests on a thought we ourselves have. But real action takes place in silent moments. The turning points of our lives are not visible events. They are not our choice of a profession, our marriage, our appointment to an office, and the like. They come instead in a silent thought beside the road as we walk. Such a thought changes our whole way of life and says, ‘You have done it this way, but that way would be better.’ All the years that follow serve and attend this thought like servants. They carry out its will as best they can. This change or correction is a constant force, a tendency that runs through our whole lifetime. The aim of the person, the aim of these moments, is to let daylight shine through him. It is to let the law pass through his whole being without obstruction. Then, whatever part of his conduct you look at will truly reveal his character. It may be his diet, his house, his religious practices, his company, his merriment, his vote, or his opposition. As he is now, he is not consistent throughout, but made up of unlike parts. The ray does not pass through him, and light does not shine all the way through. Instead, the observer is puzzled, seeing many different tendencies and a life not yet in harmony with itself.

Why should we make it a point with our false modesty to disparage that man we are and that form of being assigned to us? A good man is contented. I love and honor Epaminondas, but I do not wish to be Epaminondas. I hold it more just to love the world of this hour than the world of his hour. Nor can you, if I am true, excite me to the least uneasiness by saying, ‘He acted and thou sittest still.’ I see action to be good, when the need is, and sitting still to be also good. Epaminondas, if he was the man I take him for, would have sat still with joy and peace, if his lot had been mine. Heaven is large, and affords space for all modes of love and fortitude. Why should we be busybodies and superserviceable? Action and inaction are alike to the true. One piece of the tree is cut for a weathercock and one for the sleeper of a bridge; the virtue of the wood is apparent in both.

Why should false modesty lead us to belittle who we are and the form of life assigned to us? A good man is content. I love and honor Epaminondas, but I do not wish to be Epaminondas. I think it is more just to love the world of this hour than the world of his hour. And if I am true, you cannot make me feel the slightest unease by saying, ‘He acted and you sit still.’ I see that action is good when it is needed, and that sitting still is also good. If Epaminondas was the man I believe he was, he would have sat still with joy and peace in my place. Heaven is vast and has room for all forms of love and courage. Why should we meddle and be overly eager to help? Action and inaction are equally good for those who are true. One piece of a tree is cut to make a weather vane, another to support a bridge. The strength of the wood is apparent in both.

I desire not to disgrace the soul. The fact that I am here certainly shows me that the soul had need of an organ here. Shall I not assume the post? Shall I skulk and dodge and duck with my unseasonable apologies and vain modesty and imagine my being here impertinent? less pertinent than Epaminondas or Homer being there? and that the soul did not know its own needs? Besides, without any reasoning on the matter, I have no discontent. The good soul nourishes me and unlocks new magazines of power and enjoyment to me every day. I will not meanly decline the immensity of good, because I have heard that it has come to others in another shape.

I do not want to disgrace the soul. The fact that I am here surely shows me that the soul needed an instrument here. Should I not take up my post? Should I hide and dodge, offering untimely apologies and showing pointless modesty? Should I imagine that my presence here is out of place? Is it any less fitting than the presence of Epaminondas or Homer in their places? Should I imagine that the soul did not know its own needs? Besides, without even reasoning about the matter, I am content. The good soul nourishes me and opens new stores of power and enjoyment to me every day. I will not timidly turn down this immense good because I have heard that it came to others in a different form.

Besides, why should we be cowed by the name of Action? ’Tis a trick of the senses,—no more. We know that the ancestor of every action is a thought. The poor mind does not seem to itself to be any thing unless it have an outside badge,—some Gentoo diet, or Quaker coat, or Calvinistic prayer-meeting, or philanthropic society, or a great donation, or a high office, or, any how, some wild contrasting action to testify that it is somewhat. The rich mind lies in the sun and sleeps, and is Nature. To think is to act.

Besides, why should the word Action intimidate us? It is only a trick of the senses. We know that every action begins with a thought. The poor mind does not see itself as anything unless it has some outward badge. It might follow a Gentoo diet, wear a Quaker coat, or attend a Calvinist prayer meeting. It might join a charitable society, make a large donation, or hold a high office. Somehow, it must perform some strikingly different action to prove it is something. The rich mind lies in the sun and sleeps, and is Nature. To think is to act.

Let us, if we must have great actions, make our own so. All action is of an infinite elasticity, and the least admits of being inflated with the celestial air until it eclipses the sun and moon. Let us seek one peace by fidelity. Let me heed my duties. Why need I go gadding into the scenes and philosophy of Greek and Italian history before I have justified myself to my benefactors? How dare I read Washington’s campaigns when I have not answered the letters of my own correspondents? Is not that a just objection to much of our reading? It is a pusillanimous desertion of our work to gaze after our neighbors. It is peeping. Byron says of Jack Bunting,—

If we must have great actions, let us make our own actions great. Every action can be stretched infinitely. Even the smallest can be filled with heavenly air until it eclipses the sun and moon. Let us find peace through faithfulness. Let me attend to my duties. Why should I go wandering through the scenes and philosophy of Greek and Italian history before I have justified myself to my benefactors? How dare I read about Washington’s campaigns when I have not answered my own correspondents’ letters? Is that not a fair objection to much of our reading? It is cowardly to abandon our work to stare at our neighbors. It is peeping. Byron says of Jack Bunting:

I may say it of our preposterous use of books,—He knew not what to do, and so he read. I can think of nothing to fill my time with, and I find the Life of Brant. It is a very extravagant compliment to pay to Brant, or to General Schuyler, or to General Washington. My time should be as good as their time,—my facts, my net of relations, as good as theirs, or either of theirs. Rather let me do my work so well that other idlers if they choose may compare my texture with the texture of these and find it identical with the best.

I could say this about our absurd use of books: He did not know what to do, so he read. I cannot think of anything to fill my time, and I find the Life of Brant. Reading it is an extravagant compliment to Brant, General Schuyler, or General Washington. My time should be as valuable as theirs. My own experiences and web of relationships should be as good as those of any of them. Instead, let me do my work so well that other idlers, if they choose, can compare its fabric with theirs and find it equal to the best.

This over-estimate of the possibilities of Paul and Pericles, this under-estimate of our own, comes from a neglect of the fact of an identical nature. Bonaparte knew but one merit, and rewarded in one and the same way the good soldier, the good astronomer, the good poet, the good player. The poet uses the names of Cæsar, of Tamerlane, of Bonduca, of Belisarius; the painter uses the conventional story of the Virgin Mary, of Paul, of Peter. He does not therefore defer to the nature of these accidental men, of these stock heroes. If the poet write a true drama, then he is Cæsar, and not the player of Cæsar; then the selfsame strain of thought, emotion as pure, wit as subtle, motions as swift, mounting, extravagant, and a heart as great, self-sufficing, dauntless, which on the waves of its love and hope can uplift all that is reckoned solid and precious in the world,—palaces, gardens, money, navies, kingdoms,—marking its own incomparable worth by the slight it casts on these gauds of men;—these all are his, and by the power of these he rouses the nations. Let a man believe in God, and not in names and places and persons. Let the great soul incarnated in some woman’s form, poor and sad and single, in some Dolly or Joan, go out to service, and sweep chambers and scour floors, and its effulgent daybeams cannot be muffled or hid, but to sweep and scour will instantly appear supreme and beautiful actions, the top and radiance of human life, and all people will get mops and brooms; until, lo! suddenly the great soul has enshrined itself in some other form and done some other deed, and that is now the flower and head of all living nature.

We overestimate the possibilities of Paul and Pericles and underestimate our own because we ignore our shared nature. Bonaparte recognized only one kind of merit. He rewarded the good soldier, the good astronomer, the good poet, and the good player in the same way. The poet uses the names of Cæsar, Tamerlane, Bonduca, and Belisarius. The painter uses the familiar stories of the Virgin Mary, Paul, and Peter. Yet neither artist defers to the nature of these particular people, these stock heroes. If the poet writes a true drama, he is Cæsar, not someone playing Cæsar. Then the poet has the same quality of thought, emotion as pure, and wit as subtle. His impulses are as swift, soaring, and extravagant. His heart is as great, self-sufficient, and fearless. On the waves of its love and hope, his heart can lift everything considered solid and precious in the world: palaces, gardens, money, navies, and kingdoms. By treating these human trinkets so lightly, his heart shows its own incomparable worth. All these qualities are his, and through their power he stirs the nations. Let a person believe in God, not in names, places, and people. Suppose a great soul takes the form of a woman, poor, sad, and alone, some Dolly or Joan. Let her go into service, sweep rooms, and scrub floors. The brilliant rays of her soul cannot be dimmed or hidden. Sweeping and scrubbing will immediately seem like supreme and beautiful actions, the highest and brightest expressions of human life. Everyone will get mops and brooms. Then, suddenly, the great soul has taken another form and done another deed. And now that deed is the crowning glory of all living nature.

We are the photometers, we the irritable goldleaf and tinfoil that measure the accumulations of the subtle element. We know the authentic effects of the true fire through every one of its million disguises.

We are the light meters, the sensitive gold leaf and tinfoil that measure the buildup of the subtle element. We recognize the true fire by its real effects, through every one of its million disguises.