The Over-Soul

There is a difference between one and another hour of life in their authority and subsequent effect. Our faith comes in moments; our vice is habitual. Yet there is a depth in those brief moments which constrains us to ascribe more reality to them than to all other experiences. For this reason the argument which is always forthcoming to silence those who conceive extraordinary hopes of man, namely the appeal to experience, is for ever invalid and vain. We give up the past to the objector, and yet we hope. He must explain this hope. We grant that human life is mean, but how did we find out that it was mean? What is the ground of this uneasiness of ours; of this old discontent? What is the universal sense of want and ignorance, but the fine innuendo by which the soul makes its enormous claim? Why do men feel that the natural history of man has never been written, but he is always leaving behind what you have said of him, and it becomes old, and books of metaphysics worthless? The philosophy of six thousand years has not searched the chambers and magazines of the soul. In its experiments there has always remained, in the last analysis, a residuum it could not resolve. Man is a stream whose source is hidden. Our being is descending into us from we know not whence. The most exact calculator has no prescience that somewhat incalculable may not balk the very next moment. I am constrained every moment to acknowledge a higher origin for events than the will I call mine.

Some hours of life have more authority and lasting effect than others. Our faith comes in moments, but our vice is habitual. Yet those brief moments are so deep that we must regard them as more real than all other experiences. People who have extraordinary hopes for humanity are always urged to look at experience. But this argument, meant to silence them, is always invalid and pointless. We concede the past to the objector, and yet we still hope. The objector must explain this hope. We admit that human life is lowly, but how did we discover that it was lowly? What lies behind our uneasiness, our ancient discontent? Our universal sense of need and ignorance is the subtle hint by which the soul makes its enormous claim. Why do people feel that the natural history of humanity has never been written? It is because humanity is always moving beyond what has been said about it. Those accounts grow old, and books of metaphysics become worthless. Six thousand years of philosophy have not explored the chambers and storehouses of the soul. In all its experiments, philosophy has always found something left over that it could not explain. Humanity is a stream whose source is hidden. Our being flows down into us from we know not where. Even the most precise calculator cannot foresee whether something incalculable might upset the calculation in the very next moment. At every moment, I must acknowledge that events have a higher source than the will I call mine.

As with events, so is it with thoughts. When I watch that flowing river, which, out of regions I see not, pours for a season its streams into me, I see that I am a pensioner; not a cause, but a surprised spectator of this ethereal water; that I desire and look up and put myself in the attitude of reception, but from some alien energy the visions come.

What is true of events is also true of thoughts. I watch that flowing river pour its streams into me for a time from regions I cannot see. I see that I am a recipient, not the source, but a surprised observer of this unearthly water. I long for visions, look up, and prepare myself to receive them, but they come from some energy outside me.

The Supreme Critic on the errors of the past and the present, and the only prophet of that which must be, is that great nature in which we rest as the earth lies in the soft arms of the atmosphere; that Unity, that Over-soul, within which every man’s particular being is contained and made one with all other; that common heart of which all sincere conversation is the worship, to which all right action is submission; that overpowering reality which confutes our tricks and talents, and constrains every one to pass for what he is, and to speak from his character and not from his tongue, and which evermore tends to pass into our thought and hand and become wisdom and virtue and power and beauty. We live in succession, in division, in parts, in particles. Meantime within man is the soul of the whole; the wise silence; the universal beauty, to which every part and particle is equally related; the eternal ONE. And this deep power in which we exist and whose beatitude is all accessible to us, is not only self-sufficing and perfect in every hour, but the act of seeing and the thing seen, the seer and the spectacle, the subject and the object, are one. We see the world piece by piece, as the sun, the moon, the animal, the tree; but the whole, of which these are the shining parts, is the soul. Only by the vision of that Wisdom can the horoscope of the ages be read, and by falling back on our better thoughts, by yielding to the spirit of prophecy which is innate in every man, we can know what it saith. Every man’s words who speaks from that life must sound vain to those who do not dwell in the same thought on their own part. I dare not speak for it. My words do not carry its august sense; they fall short and cold. Only itself can inspire whom it will, and behold! their speech shall be lyrical, and sweet, and universal as the rising of the wind. Yet I desire, even by profane words, if I may not use sacred, to indicate the heaven of this deity and to report what hints I have collected of the transcendent simplicity and energy of the Highest Law.

The highest judge of past and present errors, and the only prophet of what must happen, is that great nature in which we rest, as the earth rests in the soft arms of the atmosphere. It is that Unity, that Over-soul, which contains every person’s individual being and makes it one with all others. It is that common heart that all sincere conversation worships and to which all right action submits. It is that overwhelming reality that exposes the emptiness of our tricks and talents. It compels everyone to appear as they really are and to speak from their character, not merely from their tongue. It always tends to enter our thoughts and actions, becoming wisdom, virtue, power, and beauty. We live in a sequence of separate moments, divisions, parts, and particles. Yet within us is the soul of the whole, the wise silence, the universal beauty to which every part and particle is equally related. Within us is the eternal ONE. This deep power, in which we exist and whose bliss is fully accessible to us, is self-sufficient and perfect at every moment. But in it, the act of seeing and the thing seen, the seer and the spectacle, the subject and the object, are also one. We see the world piece by piece, as the sun, the moon, the animal, the tree. But the soul is the whole of which these are the shining parts. Only through a vision of that Wisdom can we read the horoscope of the ages. We can know what Wisdom says by returning to our better thoughts and yielding to the spirit of prophecy that is in everyone. Anyone who speaks from that life will sound empty to those who do not share that thought themselves. I dare not speak for it. My words cannot carry its majestic meaning. They fall short and sound cold. Only that life can inspire whomever it chooses. Then their speech will be lyrical, sweet, and universal, like the rising of the wind. Yet, even if I cannot use sacred words, I hope to use ordinary ones to point toward the heaven of this deity. I also hope to share the hints I have gathered about the transcendent simplicity and energy of the Highest Law.

If we consider what happens in conversation, in reveries, in remorse, in times of passion, in surprises, in the instructions of dreams, wherein often we see ourselves in masquerade,—the droll disguises only magnifying and enhancing a real element and forcing it on our distinct notice,—we shall catch many hints that will broaden and lighten into knowledge of the secret of nature. All goes to show that the soul in man is not an organ, but animates and exercises all the organs; is not a function, like the power of memory, of calculation, of comparison, but uses these as hands and feet; is not a faculty, but a light; is not the intellect or the will, but the master of the intellect and the will; is the background of our being, in which they lie,—an immensity not possessed and that cannot be possessed. From within or from behind, a light shines through us upon things and makes us aware that we are nothing, but the light is all. A man is the facade of a temple wherein all wisdom and all good abide. What we commonly call man, the eating, drinking, planting, counting man, does not, as we know him, represent himself, but misrepresents himself. Him we do not respect, but the soul, whose organ he is, would he let it appear through his action, would make our knees bend. When it breathes through his intellect, it is genius; when it breathes through his will, it is virtue; when it flows through his affection, it is love. And the blindness of the intellect begins when it would be something of itself. The weakness of the will begins when the individual would be something of himself. All reform aims in some one particular to let the soul have its way through us; in other words, to engage us to obey.

If we consider what happens in conversation, daydreams, remorse, moments of passion, and surprises, we find many clues. We also find them in the lessons of dreams, where we often see ourselves in disguise. These amusing disguises only enlarge and heighten a real element in us, forcing us to notice it clearly. These clues will expand and become clear knowledge of nature’s secret. All of this shows that the human soul is not an organ. Rather, it gives life to all the organs and directs them. It is not a function like memory, calculation, or comparison. Instead, it uses these functions as hands and feet. It is not a faculty but a light. It is not the intellect or the will, but the master of both. It is the background of our being, where intellect and will reside. It is a vastness that we do not possess and cannot possess. A light shines from within us or from behind us, passing through us onto things. It makes us aware that we are nothing, but the light is everything. A person is the front of a temple where all wisdom and all goodness dwell. What we commonly call a person is someone who eats, drinks, plants, and counts. As we know that person, he does not truly represent himself but gives a false impression of himself. We do not respect him. But if he let the soul, whose instrument he is, appear through his actions, it would bring us to our knees. When the soul breathes through his intellect, it is genius. When it breathes through his will, it is virtue. When it flows through his affection, it is love. The intellect begins to go blind when it tries to be something on its own. The will begins to weaken when the individual tries to be something on his own. All reform aims, in some particular way, to let the soul have its way through us. In other words, all reform seeks to lead us to obey.

Of this pure nature every man is at some time sensible. Language cannot paint it with his colors. It is too subtile. It is undefinable, unmeasurable; but we know that it pervades and contains us. We know that all spiritual being is in man. A wise old proverb says, “God comes to see us without bell;” that is, as there is no screen or ceiling between our heads and the infinite heavens, so is there no bar or wall in the soul where man, the effect, ceases, and God, the cause, begins. The walls are taken away. We lie open on one side to the deeps of spiritual nature, to the attributes of God. Justice we see and know, Love, Freedom, Power. These natures no man ever got above, but they tower over us, and most in the moment when our interests tempt us to wound them.

Everyone is aware of this pure nature at some time. Language cannot portray it in its true colors. It is too subtle. It cannot be defined or measured, but we know that it fills and surrounds us. We know that all spiritual being is in us. A wise old proverb says, “God comes to see us without a bell.” Just as no screen or ceiling separates our heads from the infinite heavens, no barrier divides the soul where we, the effect, end and God, the cause, begins. The walls are gone. On one side, we lie open to the depths of spiritual nature, to the attributes of God. We see and know Justice, Love, Freedom, and Power. No one has ever risen above these qualities. They tower over us, especially when our interests tempt us to harm them.

The sovereignty of this nature whereof we speak is made known by its independency of those limitations which circumscribe us on every hand. The soul circumscribes all things. As I have said, it contradicts all experience. In like manner it abolishes time and space. The influence of the senses has in most men overpowered the mind to that degree that the walls of time and space have come to look real and insurmountable; and to speak with levity of these limits is, in the world, the sign of insanity. Yet time and space are but inverse measures of the force of the soul. The spirit sports with time,—

The sovereignty of this nature we speak of is shown by its freedom from the limits that surround us on every side. The soul encompasses all things. As I have said, the soul contradicts all experience. In the same way, it abolishes time and space. In most people, the senses have overwhelmed the mind so completely that the walls of time and space seem real and impossible to overcome. In the world’s eyes, to speak lightly of these limits is a sign of insanity. Yet time and space are only inverse measures of the soul’s power. The spirit plays with time.

We are often made to feel that there is another youth and age than that which is measured from the year of our natural birth. Some thoughts always find us young, and keep us so. Such a thought is the love of the universal and eternal beauty. Every man parts from that contemplation with the feeling that it rather belongs to ages than to mortal life. The least activity of the intellectual powers redeems us in a degree from the conditions of time. In sickness, in languor, give us a strain of poetry or a profound sentence, and we are refreshed; or produce a volume of Plato or Shakspeare, or remind us of their names, and instantly we come into a feeling of longevity. See how the deep divine thought reduces centuries and millenniums and makes itself present through all ages. Is the teaching of Christ less effective now than it was when first his mouth was opened? The emphasis of facts and persons in my thought has nothing to do with time. And so always the soul’s scale is one, the scale of the senses and the understanding is another. Before the revelations of the soul, Time, Space and Nature shrink away. In common speech we refer all things to time, as we habitually refer the immensely sundered stars to one concave sphere. And so we say that the Judgment is distant or near, that the Millennium approaches, that a day of certain political, moral, social reforms is at hand, and the like, when we mean that in the nature of things one of the facts we contemplate is external and fugitive, and the other is permanent and connate with the soul. The things we now esteem fixed shall, one by one, detach themselves like ripe fruit from our experience, and fall. The wind shall blow them none knows whither. The landscape, the figures, Boston, London, are facts as fugitive as any institution past, or any whiff of mist or smoke, and so is society, and so is the world. The soul looketh steadily forwards, creating a world before her, leaving worlds behind her. She has no dates, nor rites, nor persons, nor specialties nor men. The soul knows only the soul; the web of events is the flowing robe in which she is clothed.

We are often made to feel that youth and age are not measured only from the year we were born. Some thoughts always find us young and keep us young. One such thought is the love of universal and eternal beauty. Everyone who reflects on that beauty comes away feeling that it belongs to the ages rather than to mortal life. Even the slightest use of our intellectual powers frees us, to some degree, from the limits of time. When we are sick or weary, a passage of poetry or a profound sentence refreshes us. Bring us a volume of Plato or Shakespeare, or remind us of their names, and we instantly feel that we will live long. See how a profound divine thought reduces centuries and millennia and remains present through every age. Is Christ’s teaching less effective now than when he first began to speak? The importance of facts and people in my thoughts has nothing to do with time. The soul always has one scale, while the senses and understanding have another. Before the soul’s revelations, Time, Space, and Nature shrink away. In ordinary speech, we relate everything to time. In the same way, we habitually place the widely separated stars on a single hollow sphere. So we say that the Judgment is distant or near, or that the Millennium is approaching. We say that the day of certain political, moral, and social reforms is at hand, and so on. What we mean is that, by their nature, one of the facts we consider is external and fleeting. The other is permanent and belongs to the soul from birth. The things we now consider fixed will, one by one, detach themselves from our experience like ripe fruit and fall. The wind will blow them no one knows where. The landscape, the figures, Boston, and London are as fleeting as any vanished institution or any wisp of mist or smoke. So is society, and so is the world. The soul looks steadily forward, creating a world before her and leaving worlds behind her. She has no dates, rites, people, special distinctions, or men. The soul knows only the soul. The web of events is the flowing robe in which she is clothed.

After its own law and not by arithmetic is the rate of its progress to be computed. The soul’s advances are not made by gradation, such as can be represented by motion in a straight line, but rather by ascension of state, such as can be represented by metamorphosis,—from the egg to the worm, from the worm to the fly. The growths of genius are of a certain total character, that does not advance the elect individual first over John, then Adam, then Richard, and give to each the pain of discovered inferiority,—but by every throe of growth the man expands there where he works, passing, at each pulsation, classes, populations, of men. With each divine impulse the mind rends the thin rinds of the visible and finite, and comes out into eternity, and inspires and expires its air. It converses with truths that have always been spoken in the world, and becomes conscious of a closer sympathy with Zeno and Arrian than with persons in the house.

Its rate of progress must be measured by its own law, not by arithmetic. The soul does not advance gradually, like motion along a straight line. Instead, it rises from one state to another, like a creature undergoing metamorphosis: from egg to worm, from worm to fly. The growth of genius has a total character. It does not raise the chosen person first above John, then Adam, then Richard, causing each the pain of discovering his own inferiority. Instead, with every struggle of growth, the person expands where he works. With each pulse, he passes whole classes and populations of people. With each divine impulse, the mind tears through the thin coverings of the visible and finite. It emerges into eternity and breathes its air in and out. It engages with truths that have always been spoken in the world. It becomes aware of a closer sympathy with Zeno and Arrian than with the people in the house.

This is the law of moral and of mental gain. The simple rise as by specific levity not into a particular virtue, but into the region of all the virtues. They are in the spirit which contains them all. The soul requires purity, but purity is not it; requires justice, but justice is not that; requires beneficence, but is somewhat better; so that there is a kind of descent and accommodation felt when we leave speaking of moral nature to urge a virtue which it enjoins. To the well-born child all the virtues are natural, and not painfully acquired. Speak to his heart, and the man becomes suddenly virtuous.

This is the law of moral and mental growth. Simple people rise, as if by their natural lightness, not into one virtue but into the realm of all virtues. They live in the spirit that contains all virtues. The soul requires purity, but is not purity itself. It requires justice, but is not justice itself. It requires doing good, but is something better than doing good. So we feel a kind of descent and adjustment when we stop speaking of moral nature and urge a virtue it requires. For a child of good birth, all virtues are natural, not painfully acquired. Speak to his heart, and the man suddenly becomes virtuous.

Within the same sentiment is the germ of intellectual growth, which obeys the same law. Those who are capable of humility, of justice, of love, of aspiration, stand already on a platform that commands the sciences and arts, speech and poetry, action and grace. For whoso dwells in this moral beatitude already anticipates those special powers which men prize so highly. The lover has no talent, no skill, which passes for quite nothing with his enamoured maiden, however little she may possess of related faculty; and the heart which abandons itself to the Supreme Mind finds itself related to all its works, and will travel a royal road to particular knowledges and powers. In ascending to this primary and aboriginal sentiment we have come from our remote station on the circumference instantaneously to the centre of the world, where, as in the closet of God, we see causes, and anticipate the universe, which is but a slow effect.

Within the same feeling lies the seed of intellectual growth, which follows the same law. Those capable of humility, justice, love, and aspiration already stand on a platform overlooking the sciences and arts, speech and poetry, action and grace. For anyone who lives in this moral bliss already anticipates the special powers people value so highly. A lover has no talent or skill that means nothing to his beloved, however little ability she may have in the same field. Likewise, the heart that gives itself over to the Supreme Mind finds itself connected to all its works. It will find a royal road to particular kinds of knowledge and power. When we rise to this original, fundamental feeling, we move instantly from our distant place on the circumference to the center of the world. There, as if in God’s private chamber, we see causes and anticipate the universe, which is only their slow effect.

One mode of the divine teaching is the incarnation of the spirit in a form,—in forms, like my own. I live in society, with persons who answer to thoughts in my own mind, or express a certain obedience to the great instincts to which I live. I see its presence to them. I am certified of a common nature; and these other souls, these separated selves, draw me as nothing else can. They stir in me the new emotions we call passion; of love, hatred, fear, admiration, pity; thence come conversation, competition, persuasion, cities and war. Persons are supplementary to the primary teaching of the soul. In youth we are mad for persons. Childhood and youth see all the world in them. But the larger experience of man discovers the identical nature appearing through them all. Persons themselves acquaint us with the impersonal. In all conversation between two persons tacit reference is made, as to a third party, to a common nature. That third party or common nature is not social; it is impersonal; is God. And so in groups where debate is earnest, and especially on high questions, the company become aware that the thought rises to an equal level in all bosoms, that all have a spiritual property in what was said, as well as the sayer. They all become wiser than they were. It arches over them like a temple, this unity of thought in which every heart beats with nobler sense of power and duty, and thinks and acts with unusual solemnity. All are conscious of attaining to a higher self-possession. It shines for all. There is a certain wisdom of humanity which is common to the greatest men with the lowest, and which our ordinary education often labors to silence and obstruct. The mind is one, and the best minds, who love truth for its own sake, think much less of property in truth. They accept it thankfully everywhere, and do not label or stamp it with any man’s name, for it is theirs long beforehand, and from eternity. The learned and the studious of thought have no monopoly of wisdom. Their violence of direction in some degree disqualifies them to think truly. We owe many valuable observations to people who are not very acute or profound, and who say the thing without effort which we want and have long been hunting in vain. The action of the soul is oftener in that which is felt and left unsaid than in that which is said in any conversation. It broods over every society, and they unconsciously seek for it in each other. We know better than we do. We do not yet possess ourselves, and we know at the same time that we are much more. I feel the same truth how often in my trivial conversation with my neighbors, that somewhat higher in each of us overlooks this by-play, and Jove nods to Jove from behind each of us.

One way the divine teaches us is by taking spiritual form, in forms like my own. I live among people who reflect thoughts in my own mind. They also show a certain obedience to the great instincts that guide my life. I see that the spirit is present to them. I become certain that we share a common nature. These other souls, these separate selves, draw me as nothing else can. They awaken new emotions in me that we call passions: love, hatred, fear, admiration, and pity. From these come conversation, competition, persuasion, cities, and war. People add to the primary teaching of the soul. In youth, we are obsessed with people. Children and young people see the whole world in them. But as we gain experience, we discover the same nature showing itself through everyone. People themselves introduce us to what is impersonal. In every conversation between two people, both silently refer to a common nature, as if to a third party. That third party, or common nature, is not social. It is impersonal. It is God. So when groups debate earnestly, especially about great questions, everyone becomes aware of something. The thought rises to the same level in every heart. Everyone has a spiritual share in what was said, just as the speaker does. They all become wiser than they were. This unity of thought arches over them like a temple. Within it, every heart beats with a nobler sense of power and duty. Everyone thinks and acts with unusual solemnity. All are conscious of gaining greater self-possession. It shines for everyone. There is a wisdom common to all humanity, shared by the greatest people and the lowest. Our ordinary education often works to silence and obstruct this wisdom. The mind is one. The best minds, which love truth for its own sake, care much less about owning it. They accept truth gratefully wherever they find it. They do not label it or stamp it with anyone’s name. It has been theirs long beforehand, for all eternity. The learned and those who study thought have no monopoly on wisdom. Their intense focus on a particular direction makes them less able to think truly. We owe many valuable observations to people who are not especially sharp or deep. Without effort, they say what we need and have long searched for in vain. In conversation, the soul more often acts through what is felt and left unsaid than through what is said. It hovers over every gathering, and people unconsciously look for it in one another. We know better than we act. We do not yet possess ourselves, and at the same time we know that we are much more. How often I feel this same truth in casual conversations with my neighbors. Something higher in each of us watches this little exchange, and Jove nods to Jove from behind each of us.

Men descend to meet. In their habitual and mean service to the world, for which they forsake their native nobleness, they resemble those Arabian sheiks who dwell in mean houses and affect an external poverty, to escape the rapacity of the Pacha, and reserve all their display of wealth for their interior and guarded retirements.

Men lower themselves to meet one another. In their usual, lowly service to the world, they give up their natural nobility. They resemble Arabian sheiks who live in poor houses and pretend to be poor to escape the Pacha's greed. The sheiks display all their wealth only in their private, guarded retreats.

As it is present in all persons, so it is in every period of life. It is adult already in the infant man. In my dealing with my child, my Latin and Greek, my accomplishments and my money stead me nothing; but as much soul as I have avails. If I am wilful, he sets his will against mine, one for one, and leaves me, if I please, the degradation of beating him by my superiority of strength. But if I renounce my will and act for the soul, setting that up as umpire between us two, out of his young eyes looks the same soul; he reveres and loves with me.

Just as it is present in all people, it is present at every stage of life. It is already fully grown in an infant. When I deal with my child, my Latin and Greek, my accomplishments, and my money are no help. But whatever soul I have does help. If I insist on my own will, he matches it with his own. He leaves me, if I choose, to degrade myself by beating him through superior strength. But if I give up my own will and act for the soul, I make it the judge between us. Then the same soul looks out from his young eyes. He reveres and loves with me.

The soul is the perceiver and revealer of truth. We know truth when we see it, let skeptic and scoffer say what they choose. Foolish people ask you, when you have spoken what they do not wish to hear, ‘How do you know it is truth, and not an error of your own?’ We know truth when we see it, from opinion, as we know when we are awake that we are awake. It was a grand sentence of Emanuel Swedenborg, which would alone indicate the greatness of that man’s perception,—“It is no proof of a man’s understanding to be able to confirm whatever he pleases; but to be able to discern that what is true is true, and that what is false is false,—this is the mark and character of intelligence.” In the book I read, the good thought returns to me, as every truth will, the image of the whole soul. To the bad thought which I find in it, the same soul becomes a discerning, separating sword, and lops it away. We are wiser than we know. If we will not interfere with our thought, but will act entirely, or see how the thing stands in God, we know the particular thing, and every thing, and every man. For the Maker of all things and all persons stands behind us and casts his dread omniscience through us over things.

The soul perceives and reveals truth. We know truth when we see it, whatever skeptics and scoffers may say. When you say something foolish people do not want to hear, they ask, ‘How do you know it is truth, and not an error of your own?’ We know truth from opinion when we see it, just as we know we are awake when we are awake. Emanuel Swedenborg wrote a great sentence. This sentence alone would show the greatness of his perception: “It is no proof of a man’s understanding that he can confirm whatever he pleases. The mark and character of intelligence is the ability to recognize what is true as true and what is false as false.” In a book I read, a good thought comes back to me, as every truth will, reflecting the whole soul. When I find a bad thought in the book, that same soul becomes a discerning sword. It separates the bad thought and cuts it away. We are wiser than we know. If we do not interfere with our thought, but act with our whole being, or see how the thing stands in God, we know that particular thing, everything, and every person. For the Maker of all things and all persons stands behind us. He casts his awe-inspiring knowledge of all things through us and over everything.

But beyond this recognition of its own in particular passages of the individual’s experience, it also reveals truth. And here we should seek to reinforce ourselves by its very presence, and to speak with a worthier, loftier strain of that advent. For the soul’s communication of truth is the highest event in nature, since it then does not give somewhat from itself, but it gives itself, or passes into and becomes that man whom it enlightens; or, in proportion to that truth he receives, it takes him to itself.

But beyond recognizing what belongs to it in particular moments of a person’s experience, the soul also reveals truth. Here we should seek strength in the soul’s very presence and speak more worthily and nobly of its arrival. For the soul’s communication of truth is the highest event in nature. At that moment, the soul does not give something from itself. It gives itself, entering and becoming the person it enlightens. Or, to the extent that a person receives that truth, the soul takes him into itself.

We distinguish the announcements of the soul, its manifestations of its own nature, by the term Revelation. These are always attended by the emotion of the sublime. For this communication is an influx of the Divine mind into our mind. It is an ebb of the individual rivulet before the flowing surges of the sea of life. Every distinct apprehension of this central commandment agitates men with awe and delight. A thrill passes through all men at the reception of new truth, or at the performance of a great action, which comes out of the heart of nature. In these communications the power to see is not separated from the will to do, but the insight proceeds from obedience, and the obedience proceeds from a joyful perception. Every moment when the individual feels himself invaded by it is memorable. By the necessity of our constitution a certain enthusiasm attends the individual’s consciousness of that divine presence. The character and duration of this enthusiasm varies with the state of the individual, from an ecstasy and trance and prophetic inspiration,—which is its rarer appearance,—to the faintest glow of virtuous emotion, in which form it warms, like our household fires, all the families and associations of men, and makes society possible. A certain tendency to insanity has always attended the opening of the religious sense in men, as if they had been “blasted with excess of light.” The trances of Socrates, the “union” of Plotinus, the vision of Porphyry, the conversion of Paul, the aurora of Behmen, the convulsions of George Fox and his Quakers, the illumination of Swedenborg, are of this kind. What was in the case of these remarkable persons a ravishment, has, in innumerable instances in common life, been exhibited in less striking manner. Everywhere the history of religion betrays a tendency to enthusiasm. The rapture of the Moravian and Quietist; the opening of the internal sense of the Word, in the language of the New Jerusalem Church; the revival of the Calvinistic churches; the experiences of the Methodists, are varying forms of that shudder of awe and delight with which the individual soul always mingles with the universal soul.

We call the soul’s announcements, the expressions of its own nature, Revelation. They always bring a sense of the sublime. For through them, the Divine mind flows into our minds. The individual stream recedes before the surging sea of life. Whenever people clearly grasp this central commandment, they feel awe and delight. A thrill passes through all people when they receive a new truth or perform a great action from the heart of nature. In these communications, the power to see is not separate from the will to act. Instead, insight comes from obedience, and obedience comes from joyful understanding. Every moment when a person feels this divine presence enter is memorable. By our very nature, we feel a certain enthusiasm when we become aware of that presence. The character and duration of this enthusiasm vary with the person’s condition. In its rarer forms, it appears as ecstasy, trance, or prophetic inspiration. In its faintest form, it is a glow of virtuous feeling. Like our household fires, this feeling warms all human families and associations and makes society possible. A certain tendency toward insanity has always accompanied the awakening of the religious sense in people. It is as if they had been “blasted with excess of light.” Examples include the trances of Socrates, the “union” of Plotinus, the vision of Porphyry, and the conversion of Paul. They also include the aurora of Behmen, the convulsions of George Fox and his Quakers, and the illumination of Swedenborg. What came as an overpowering experience to these remarkable people has appeared less dramatically in countless instances of ordinary life. Everywhere, the history of religion reveals a tendency toward enthusiasm. The rapture of the Moravian and Quietist is one form. Others are the opening of the internal sense of the Word, as the New Jerusalem Church calls it, the revival of the Calvinistic churches, and the experiences of the Methodists. All are different forms of the shudder of awe and delight that always accompanies the individual soul’s union with the universal soul.

The nature of these revelations is the same; they are perceptions of the absolute law. They are solutions of the soul’s own questions. They do not answer the questions which the understanding asks. The soul answers never by words, but by the thing itself that is inquired after.

These revelations are all of the same kind. They are perceptions of the absolute law. They resolve the soul’s own questions. They do not answer the questions the intellect asks. The soul never answers with words, but with the very thing it asks about.

Revelation is the disclosure of the soul. The popular notion of a revelation is that it is a telling of fortunes. In past oracles of the soul the understanding seeks to find answers to sensual questions, and undertakes to tell from God how long men shall exist, what their hands shall do and who shall be their company, adding names and dates and places. But we must pick no locks. We must check this low curiosity. An answer in words is delusive; it is really no answer to the questions you ask. Do not require a description of the countries towards which you sail. The description does not describe them to you, and to-morrow you arrive there and know them by inhabiting them. Men ask concerning the immortality of the soul, the employments of heaven, the state of the sinner, and so forth. They even dream that Jesus has left replies to precisely these interrogatories. Never a moment did that sublime spirit speak in their patois. To truth, justice, love, the attributes of the soul, the idea of immutableness is essentially associated. Jesus, living in these moral sentiments, heedless of sensual fortunes, heeding only the manifestations of these, never made the separation of the idea of duration from the essence of these attributes, nor uttered a syllable concerning the duration of the soul. It was left to his disciples to sever duration from the moral elements, and to teach the immortality of the soul as a doctrine, and maintain it by evidences. The moment the doctrine of the immortality is separately taught, man is already fallen. In the flowing of love, in the adoration of humility, there is no question of continuance. No inspired man ever asks this question or condescends to these evidences. For the soul is true to itself, and the man in whom it is shed abroad cannot wander from the present, which is infinite, to a future which would be finite.

Revelation is the soul revealing itself. People commonly think of revelation as a kind of fortune-telling. They look to past revelations of the soul for answers to worldly questions. They try to say, on God’s authority, how long people will live, what they will do, and who will be with them. They even add names, dates, and places. But we must not pick locks. We must restrain this low curiosity. An answer in words is misleading. It does not really answer the questions you ask. Do not demand a description of the countries you are sailing toward. A description cannot show you what they are like. Tomorrow you will arrive and know them by living there. People ask about the soul’s immortality, the activities of heaven, the condition of the sinner, and so on. They even imagine that Jesus left answers to these exact questions. That sublime spirit never spoke in their jargon for a moment. Truth, justice, and love are attributes of the soul, and they are inseparable from the idea of unchanging permanence. Jesus lived in these moral sentiments. He paid no attention to worldly fortunes, only to how these sentiments were expressed. He never separated the idea of duration from the essence of these attributes. Nor did he say a word about how long the soul lasts. His disciples were left to separate duration from the moral elements. They taught the soul’s immortality as a doctrine and supported it with evidence. The moment immortality is taught as a separate doctrine, man has already fallen. When love flows and humility worships, there is no question of whether they will continue. No inspired person ever asks that question or stoops to consider such evidence. The soul is true to itself. A person filled with the soul cannot stray from the infinite present to a future that would be finite.

These questions which we lust to ask about the future are a confession of sin. God has no answer for them. No answer in words can reply to a question of things. It is not in an arbitrary “decree of God,” but in the nature of man, that a veil shuts down on the facts of to-morrow; for the soul will not have us read any other cipher than that of cause and effect. By this veil which curtains events it instructs the children of men to live in to-day. The only mode of obtaining an answer to these questions of the senses is to forego all low curiosity, and, accepting the tide of being which floats us into the secret of nature, work and live, work and live, and all unawares the advancing soul has built and forged for itself a new condition, and the question and the answer are one.

Our eager questions about the future are a confession of sin. God has no answer for them. Words cannot answer a question about things. A veil hides tomorrow’s facts not because of an arbitrary “decree of God,” but because of human nature. The soul allows us to read no code except cause and effect. By hiding events behind this veil, the soul teaches us to live today. The only way to answer these questions of the senses is to give up all base curiosity. We must accept the tide of being that carries us into nature’s secret. We must work and live, work and live. Then, without our noticing, the advancing soul has built and forged a new condition for itself. The question and the answer are one.

By the same fire, vital, consecrating, celestial, which burns until it shall dissolve all things into the waves and surges of an ocean of light, we see and know each other, and what spirit each is of. Who can tell the grounds of his knowledge of the character of the several individuals in his circle of friends? No man. Yet their acts and words do not disappoint him. In that man, though he knew no ill of him, he put no trust. In that other, though they had seldom met, authentic signs had yet passed, to signify that he might be trusted as one who had an interest in his own character. We know each other very well,—which of us has been just to himself and whether that which we teach or behold is only an aspiration or is our honest effort also.

By the same fire, vital, sacred, and heavenly, we see and know one another and the spirit of each person. That fire burns until it dissolves all things into the waves and surges of an ocean of light. Who can explain how he knows the character of each person in his circle of friends? No one can. Yet their actions and words do not surprise him. He placed no trust in one man, though he knew nothing bad about him. With another, though they had seldom met, he had seen genuine signs that the man could be trusted. Those signs showed that the man cared about his own character. We know one another very well. We know which of us has been true to himself. We also know whether what we teach or see is only an aspiration or something we honestly strive for.

We are all discerners of spirits. That diagnosis lies aloft in our life or unconscious power. The intercourse of society, its trade, its religion, its friendships, its quarrels, is one wide, judicial investigation of character. In full court, or in small committee, or confronted face to face, accuser and accused, men offer themselves to be judged. Against their will they exhibit those decisive trifles by which character is read. But who judges? and what? Not our understanding. We do not read them by learning or craft. No; the wisdom of the wise man consists herein, that he does not judge them; he lets them judge themselves and merely reads and records their own verdict.

We all have the power to discern spirits. This power of judgment belongs to the higher reaches of our life, or to our unconscious power. All social interaction is one vast investigation of character: its trade, religion, friendships, and quarrels. Whether in a full court, a small committee, or face to face as accuser and accused, people present themselves for judgment. Against their will, they reveal the telling little details by which their character can be read. But who judges, and what is being judged? Our understanding does not judge. We do not read character through learning or skill. No, the wisdom of a wise person lies in not judging others. Instead, the wise person lets others judge themselves and merely reads and records their own verdict.

By virtue of this inevitable nature, private will is overpowered, and, maugre our efforts or our imperfections, your genius will speak from you, and mine from me. That which we are, we shall teach, not voluntarily but involuntarily. Thoughts come into our minds by avenues which we never left open, and thoughts go out of our minds through avenues which we never voluntarily opened. Character teaches over our head. The infallible index of true progress is found in the tone the man takes. Neither his age, nor his breeding, nor company, nor books, nor actions, nor talents, nor all together can hinder him from being deferential to a higher spirit than his own. If he have not found his home in God, his manners, his forms of speech, the turn of his sentences, the build, shall I say, of all his opinions will involuntarily confess it, let him brave it out how he will. If he have found his centre, the Deity will shine through him, through all the disguises of ignorance, of ungenial temperament, of unfavorable circumstance. The tone of seeking is one, and the tone of having is another.

Because of this inescapable nature, personal will is overcome. Despite our efforts or imperfections, your genius will speak through you, and mine through me. What we are, we teach, not willingly but without intending to. Thoughts enter our minds through paths we never left open. And thoughts leave our minds through paths we never chose to open. Character teaches beyond our conscious control. The surest sign of true progress is a person’s tone. Neither age, upbringing, company, books, actions, talents, nor all of these together can prevent him from deferring to a higher spirit than his own. If he has not found his home in God, his manners and speech will reveal it without his intending them to. So will the shape of his sentences and the structure, I might say, of all his opinions. All this will happen however boldly he tries to conceal it. If he has found his center, the Deity will shine through him. God will shine through every disguise of ignorance, an unfriendly temperament, or unfavorable circumstances. The tone of seeking is one thing, and the tone of having is another.

The great distinction between teachers sacred or literary,—between poets like Herbert, and poets like Pope,—between philosophers like Spinoza, Kant and Coleridge, and philosophers like Locke, Paley, Mackintosh and Stewart,—between men of the world who are reckoned accomplished talkers, and here and there a fervent mystic, prophesying half insane under the infinitude of his thought,—is that one class speak from within, or from experience, as parties and possessors of the fact; and the other class from without, as spectators merely, or perhaps as acquainted with the fact on the evidence of third persons. It is of no use to preach to me from without. I can do that too easily myself. Jesus speaks always from within, and in a degree that transcends all others. In that is the miracle. I believe beforehand that it ought so to be. All men stand continually in the expectation of the appearance of such a teacher. But if a man do not speak from within the veil, where the word is one with that it tells of, let him lowly confess it.

There is a great distinction between religious and literary teachers. It separates poets like Herbert from poets like Pope. It separates philosophers like Spinoza, Kant and Coleridge from philosophers like Locke, Paley, Mackintosh and Stewart. It also separates worldly men known as accomplished talkers from the occasional fervent mystic, prophesying almost madly under the vastness of his thought. One group speaks from within, or from experience, as participants who possess firsthand knowledge of the fact. The other speaks from without, merely as spectators, or perhaps knowing the fact only through the testimony of others. There is no use preaching to me from without. I can do that too easily myself. Jesus always speaks from within, and to a degree beyond all others. That is the miracle. I believe beforehand that it ought to be so. All people continually expect such a teacher to appear. But if a man does not speak from within the veil, where the word is one with what it describes, let him humbly admit it.

The same Omniscience flows into the intellect, and makes what we call genius. Much of the wisdom of the world is not wisdom, and the most illuminated class of men are no doubt superior to literary fame, and are not writers. Among the multitude of scholars and authors, we feel no hallowing presence; we are sensible of a knack and skill rather than of inspiration; they have a light and know not whence it comes and call it their own; their talent is some exaggerated faculty, some overgrown member, so that their strength is a disease. In these instances the intellectual gifts do not make the impression of virtue, but almost of vice; and we feel that a man’s talents stand in the way of his advancement in truth. But genius is religious. It is a larger imbibing of the common heart. It is not anomalous, but more like and not less like other men. There is in all great poets a wisdom of humanity which is superior to any talents they exercise. The author, the wit, the partisan, the fine gentleman, does not take place of the man. Humanity shines in Homer, in Chaucer, in Spenser, in Shakspeare, in Milton. They are content with truth. They use the positive degree. They seem frigid and phlegmatic to those who have been spiced with the frantic passion and violent coloring of inferior but popular writers. For they are poets by the free course which they allow to the informing soul, which through their eyes beholds again and blesses the things which it hath made. The soul is superior to its knowledge, wiser than any of its works. The great poet makes us feel our own wealth, and then we think less of his compositions. His best communication to our mind is to teach us to despise all he has done. Shakspeare carries us to such a lofty strain of intelligent activity as to suggest a wealth which beggars his own; and we then feel that the splendid works which he has created, and which in other hours we extol as a sort of self-existent poetry, take no stronger hold of real nature than the shadow of a passing traveller on the rock. The inspiration which uttered itself in Hamlet and Lear could utter things as good from day to day for ever. Why then should I make account of Hamlet and Lear, as if we had not the soul from which they fell as syllables from the tongue?

The same Omniscience flows into the intellect and creates what we call genius. Much of what the world calls wisdom is not wisdom. And the most enlightened people are no doubt above literary fame and are not writers. Among the multitude of scholars and authors, we feel no sacred presence. We sense a knack and skill rather than inspiration. They have a light, but do not know where it comes from and call it their own. Their talent is some exaggerated faculty, like an overgrown limb, so that their strength is a disease. In these cases, intellectual gifts suggest not virtue but almost vice. We feel that a person’s talents stand in the way of their progress toward truth. But genius is religious. It draws more deeply from the heart we all share. Genius is not an oddity. A person of genius is more like other people, not less. All great poets possess a wisdom about humanity that is greater than any talents they exercise. The author, the wit, the partisan, or the refined gentleman does not take the place of the human being. Humanity shines in Homer, in Chaucer, in Spenser, in Shakspeare, in Milton. They are content with truth. They speak plainly, without exaggeration. They seem cold and unexcited to those accustomed to the frenzied passion and vivid coloring of lesser but popular writers. For they are poets because they give free passage to the soul that gives them insight. Through their eyes, the soul sees and blesses again the things it has made. The soul is greater than its knowledge, wiser than any of its works. The great poet makes us feel our own richness, and then we think less of his works. His best gift to our minds is to teach us to look down on everything he has done. Shakspeare lifts us to such heights of intelligent activity that we glimpse a richness that makes his own seem poor. Then we feel that his splendid works have no firmer hold on real nature than a passing traveler’s shadow on a rock. Yet at other times we praise those works as a kind of poetry existing in its own right. The inspiration that found expression in Hamlet and Lear could produce things just as good every day, forever. Why, then, should I make so much of Hamlet and Lear, as if we did not possess the soul from which they fell like syllables from the tongue?

This energy does not descend into individual life on any other condition than entire possession. It comes to the lowly and simple; it comes to whomsoever will put off what is foreign and proud; it comes as insight; it comes as serenity and grandeur. When we see those whom it inhabits, we are apprised of new degrees of greatness. From that inspiration the man comes back with a changed tone. He does not talk with men with an eye to their opinion. He tries them. It requires of us to be plain and true. The vain traveller attempts to embellish his life by quoting my lord and the prince and the countess, who thus said or did to him. The ambitious vulgar show you their spoons and brooches and rings, and preserve their cards and compliments. The more cultivated, in their account of their own experience, cull out the pleasing, poetic circumstance,—the visit to Rome, the man of genius they saw, the brilliant friend They know; still further on perhaps the gorgeous landscape, the mountain lights, the mountain thoughts they enjoyed yesterday,—and so seek to throw a romantic color over their life. But the soul that ascends to worship the great God is plain and true; has no rose-color, no fine friends, no chivalry, no adventures; does not want admiration; dwells in the hour that now is, in the earnest experience of the common day,—by reason of the present moment and the mere trifle having become porous to thought and bibulous of the sea of light.

This energy enters an individual's life only when it takes complete possession. It comes to the humble and simple. It comes to anyone who puts aside what is alien and proud. It comes as insight, as serenity and grandeur. When we see those who are filled with this energy, we become aware of new degrees of greatness. A person returns from that inspiration with a changed tone. He does not speak to others with an eye to their opinion. He tests them. This energy requires us to be plain and truthful. The vain traveler tries to make his life seem more impressive by quoting a lord, prince, or countess. They said or did such things to him. The ambitious and vulgar show you their spoons, brooches, and rings. They keep the cards and compliments they receive. More cultivated people describe their experiences by picking out the pleasing, poetic details. They mention a visit to Rome, a genius they saw, or a brilliant friend they know. Perhaps they go further and describe a magnificent landscape, the mountain light, and the mountain thoughts they enjoyed yesterday. In this way, they try to cast a romantic glow over their lives. But the soul that rises to worship the great God is plain and true. It has no rosy glow, no fine friends, no chivalry, and no adventures. It does not seek admiration. It lives in the present hour, in the earnest experience of an ordinary day. For the present moment and the smallest trifle have become open to thought and able to drink in the sea of light.

Converse with a mind that is grandly simple, and literature looks like word-catching. The simplest utterances are worthiest to be written, yet are they so cheap and so things of course, that in the infinite riches of the soul it is like gathering a few pebbles off the ground, or bottling a little air in a phial, when the whole earth and the whole atmosphere are ours. Nothing can pass there, or make you one of the circle, but the casting aside your trappings, and dealing man to man in naked truth, plain confession, and omniscient affirmation.

Talk with a mind of majestic simplicity, and literature looks like a hunt for words. The simplest things people say are the most worthy of being written down. Yet they are so ordinary and so much taken for granted that writing them down seems almost pointless. Among the soul’s infinite riches, it is like gathering a few pebbles from the ground or bottling a little air. The whole earth and the whole atmosphere are ours. Nothing else will do there, and nothing else will make you part of the circle. You must cast aside your trappings and deal with others as equals, in naked truth, plain confession, and all-knowing affirmation.

Souls such as these treat you as gods would, walk as gods in the earth, accepting without any admiration your wit, your bounty, your virtue even,—say rather your act of duty, for your virtue they own as their proper blood, royal as themselves, and over-royal, and the father of the gods. But what rebuke their plain fraternal bearing casts on the mutual flattery with which authors solace each other and wound themselves! These flatter not. I do not wonder that these men go to see Cromwell and Christina and Charles the Second and James the First and the Grand Turk. For they are, in their own elevation, the fellows of kings, and must feel the servile tone of conversation in the world. They must always be a godsend to princes, for they confront them, a king to a king, without ducking or concession, and give a high nature the refreshment and satisfaction of resistance, of plain humanity, of even companionship and of new ideas. They leave them wiser and superior men. Souls like these make us feel that sincerity is more excellent than flattery. Deal so plainly with man and woman as to constrain the utmost sincerity and destroy all hope of trifling with you. It is the highest compliment you can pay. Their “highest praising,” said Milton, “is not flattery, and their plainest advice is a kind of praising.”

Souls like these treat you as gods would. They walk the earth like gods, accepting your wit, generosity, and even your virtue without admiration. Rather, they accept your acts of duty without admiration. For they recognize your virtue as their own flesh and blood, as royal as they are, more than royal, the father of the gods. But their straightforward, brotherly manner rebukes the mutual flattery with which authors comfort one another and hurt themselves! These souls do not flatter. I am not surprised that these men go to see Cromwell and Christina and Charles the Second and James the First and the Grand Turk. In their own greatness, they are the equals of kings, and they must feel the servile tone of ordinary conversation. They must always be a godsend to princes. For they face princes as one king faces another, without bowing or giving way. They give a noble nature the refreshment and satisfaction of resistance, honest humanity, equal companionship, and new ideas. They leave princes wiser and better men. Souls like these make us feel that sincerity is better than flattery. Deal so openly with men and women that they must be completely sincere and cannot hope to trifle with you. This is the highest compliment you can pay. Their “highest praising,” said Milton, “is not flattery, and their plainest advice is a kind of praising.”

Ineffable is the union of man and God in every act of the soul. The simplest person who in his integrity worships God, becomes God; yet for ever and ever the influx of this better and universal self is new and unsearchable. It inspires awe and astonishment. How dear, how soothing to man, arises the idea of God, peopling the lonely place, effacing the scars of our mistakes and disappointments! When we have broken our god of tradition and ceased from our god of rhetoric, then may God fire the heart with his presence. It is the doubling of the heart itself, nay, the infinite enlargement of the heart with a power of growth to a new infinity on every side. It inspires in man an infallible trust. He has not the conviction, but the sight, that the best is the true, and may in that thought easily dismiss all particular uncertainties and fears, and adjourn to the sure revelation of time the solution of his private riddles. He is sure that his welfare is dear to the heart of being. In the presence of law to his mind he is overflowed with a reliance so universal that it sweeps away all cherished hopes and the most stable projects of mortal condition in its flood. He believes that he cannot escape from his good. The things that are really for thee gravitate to thee. You are running to seek your friend. Let your feet run, but your mind need not. If you do not find him, will you not acquiesce that it is best you should not find him? for there is a power, which, as it is in you, is in him also, and could therefore very well bring you together, if it were for the best. You are preparing with eagerness to go and render a service to which your talent and your taste invite you, the love of men and the hope of fame. Has it not occurred to you that you have no right to go, unless you are equally willing to be prevented from going? O, believe, as thou livest, that every sound that is spoken over the round world, which thou oughtest to hear, will vibrate on thine ear! Every proverb, every book, every byword that belongs to thee for aid or comfort, shall surely come home through open or winding passages. Every friend whom not thy fantastic will but the great and tender heart in thee craveth, shall lock thee in his embrace. And this because the heart in thee is the heart of all; not a valve, not a wall, not an intersection is there anywhere in nature, but one blood rolls uninterruptedly an endless circulation through all men, as the water of the globe is all one sea, and, truly seen, its tide is one.

The union of humanity and God in every act of the soul is beyond words. The simplest person who worships God with integrity becomes God. Yet the flow of this better, universal self is forever new and impossible to fathom. It inspires awe and wonder. How precious and comforting the idea of God is to us! It fills our loneliness and erases the scars of our mistakes and disappointments. We must first break the god handed down by tradition and abandon the god of empty words. Only then may God set our hearts on fire with his presence. His presence doubles the heart itself. More than that, it enlarges the heart infinitely, with the power to grow toward a new infinity in every direction. God’s presence inspires a trust that cannot fail. A person does not merely believe that the best is true. He sees it. With that thought, he can easily set aside all particular doubts and fears. He can leave the answers to his personal riddles to time, which will surely reveal them. He is sure that his welfare is dear to the heart of being. When his mind recognizes the presence of law, he is flooded with an all encompassing trust. It sweeps away every cherished hope and even the most settled plans of mortal life. He believes that he cannot escape what is good for him. The things that are truly meant for you are drawn toward you. You are running to find your friend. Let your feet run, but your mind need not hurry. If you do not find him, will you not accept that it is best you did not? A power exists in him just as it exists in you. So it could easily bring you together if that were best. You are eagerly preparing to go and offer a service. Your talent and taste, your love of others, and your hope of fame draw you to it. Has it occurred to you that you have no right to go unless you are equally willing to be stopped? Oh, believe, as surely as you live, that every sound spoken anywhere in the world that you ought to hear will reach your ear! Every proverb, every book, every saying that belongs to you for help or comfort will surely find its way to you. It may come by a direct path or a winding one. Every friend you long for, not through some passing whim, but through the great and tender heart within you, will hold you in an embrace. This is because the heart within you is the heart of all. Nowhere in nature is there a valve, a wall, or a barrier. Instead, one blood flows without interruption through all people in an endless circulation. In the same way, all the water on earth is one sea. Seen truly, its tide is one.

Let man then learn the revelation of all nature and all thought to his heart; this, namely; that the Highest dwells with him; that the sources of nature are in his own mind, if the sentiment of duty is there. But if he would know what the great God speaketh, he must ‘go into his closet and shut the door,’ as Jesus said. God will not make himself manifest to cowards. He must greatly listen to himself, withdrawing himself from all the accents of other men’s devotion. Even their prayers are hurtful to him, until he have made his own. Our religion vulgarly stands on numbers of believers. Whenever the appeal is made,—no matter how indirectly,—to numbers, proclamation is then and there made that religion is not. He that finds God a sweet enveloping thought to him never counts his company. When I sit in that presence, who shall dare to come in? When I rest in perfect humility, when I burn with pure love, what can Calvin or Swedenborg say?

Let everyone take to heart what all nature and all thought reveal: the Highest dwells within them. If they have a sense of duty, the sources of nature are in their own minds. But if they would know what the great God says, they must ‘go into their closet and shut the door,’ as Jesus said. God will not reveal himself to cowards. Each person must listen deeply to themselves, withdrawing from all expressions of other people’s devotion. Even their prayers are harmful until a person has made their own. Our religion commonly rests on the number of believers. Whenever anyone appeals to numbers, no matter how indirectly, they declare that religion is absent. A person who finds God a sweet, surrounding presence never counts how many others share that experience. When I sit in that presence, who would dare to enter? When I rest in perfect humility, when I burn with pure love, what can Calvin or Swedenborg say?

It makes no difference whether the appeal is to numbers or to one. The faith that stands on authority is not faith. The reliance on authority measures the decline of religion, the withdrawal of the soul. The position men have given to Jesus, now for many centuries of history, is a position of authority. It characterizes themselves. It cannot alter the eternal facts. Great is the soul, and plain. It is no flatterer, it is no follower; it never appeals from itself. It believes in itself. Before the immense possibilities of man all mere experience, all past biography, however spotless and sainted, shrinks away. Before that heaven which our presentiments foreshow us, we cannot easily praise any form of life we have seen or read of. We not only affirm that we have few great men, but, absolutely speaking, that we have none; that we have no history, no record of any character or mode of living that entirely contents us. The saints and demigods whom history worships we are constrained to accept with a grain of allowance. Though in our lonely hours we draw a new strength out of their memory, yet, pressed on our attention, as they are by the thoughtless and customary, they fatigue and invade. The soul gives itself, alone, original and pure, to the Lonely, Original and Pure, who, on that condition, gladly inhabits, leads and speaks through it. Then is it glad, young and nimble. It is not wise, but it sees through all things. It is not called religious, but it is innocent. It calls the light its own, and feels that the grass grows and the stone falls by a law inferior to, and dependent on, its nature. Behold, it saith, I am born into the great, the universal mind. I, the imperfect, adore my own Perfect. I am somehow receptive of the great soul, and thereby I do Overlook the sun and the stars and feel them to be the fair accidents and effects which change and pass. More and more the surges of everlasting nature enter into me, and I become public and human in my regards and actions. So come I to live in thoughts and act with energies which are immortal. Thus revering the soul, and learning, as the ancient said, that “its beauty is immense,” man will come to see that the world is the perennial miracle which the soul worketh, and be less astonished at particular wonders; he will learn that there is no profane history; that all history is sacred; that the universe is represented in an atom, in a moment of time. He will weave no longer a spotted life of shreds and patches, but he will live with a divine unity. He will cease from what is base and frivolous in his life and be content with all places and with any service he can render. He will calmly front the morrow in the negligency of that trust which carries God with it and so hath already the whole future in the bottom of the heart.

It makes no difference whether we appeal to the authority of many people or one. Faith that rests on authority is not faith. Reliance on authority shows how far religion has declined and the soul has withdrawn. For many centuries, people have given Jesus a position of authority. That says something about them. It cannot change the eternal facts. The soul is great and straightforward. It does not flatter or follow. It never appeals to anything beyond itself. It believes in itself. Before humanity’s immense possibilities, all mere experience and every past life shrink into insignificance, however spotless and saintly. We have glimpses of heaven in our presentiments. Before that heaven, we can hardly praise any way of life we have seen or read about. We say not only that we have few great people, but that, in an absolute sense, we have none. We have no history, no record of a character or way of life that completely satisfies us. We must accept the saints and demigods whom history worships with some reservations. In our lonely hours, their memory gives us new strength. Yet thoughtless people keep pressing these figures on our attention, as custom dictates, and so they tire and intrude upon us. The soul, alone, original and pure, gives itself to the Lonely, Original and Pure. On that condition, the divine gladly lives in the soul, leads it and speaks through it. Then the soul is glad, young and nimble. It is not wise, but it sees through all things. It is not called religious, but it is innocent. It calls the light its own. It feels that the grass grows and the stone falls according to a law lower than, and dependent on, its own nature. “Look,” the soul says, “I am born into the great, universal mind. I, imperfect as I am, adore my own Perfect. Somehow, I can receive the great soul. Through it, I look beyond the sun and the stars and feel that they are beautiful accidents and effects that change and pass away. More and more, the surges of everlasting nature enter me. My concerns and actions become more public and human. In this way, I come to live in thoughts and act with energies that are immortal.” By revering the soul, a person learns, as an ancient writer said, that “its beauty is immense.” He will come to see that the world is the enduring miracle the soul creates. He will be less astonished by particular wonders. He will learn that no history is profane, that all history is sacred. He will learn that the universe is represented in an atom and in a moment of time. He will no longer piece together a patchwork life of scraps and fragments. Instead, he will live with a divine unity. He will give up what is base and frivolous in his life. He will be content wherever he is and with whatever service he can render. He will face tomorrow calmly, with the carefree confidence of a trust that carries God with it. Through that trust, he already holds the whole future deep in his heart.