Prudence

What right have I to write on Prudence, whereof I have Little, and that of the negative sort? My prudence consists in avoiding and going without, not in the inventing of means and methods, not in adroit steering, not in gentle repairing. I have no skill to make money spend well, no genius in my economy, and whoever sees my garden discovers that I must have some other garden. Yet I love facts, and hate lubricity and people without perception. Then I have the same title to write on prudence that I have to write on poetry or holiness. We write from aspiration and antagonism, as well as from experience. We paint those qualities which we do not possess. The poet admires the man of energy and tactics; the merchant breeds his son for the church or the bar; and where a man is not vain and egotistic you shall find what he has not by his praise. Moreover it would be hardly honest in me not to balance these fine lyric words of Love and Friendship with words of coarser sound, and whilst my debt to my senses is real and constant, not to own it in passing.

What right do I have to write about prudence? I have little of it, and what I have is mostly negative. My prudence consists in avoiding things and going without them. It does not consist in inventing means and methods, steering skillfully, or making careful repairs. I have no skill in making money go far and no genius for managing my resources. Anyone who sees my garden discovers that I must have another garden. Yet I love facts, and I hate slipperiness and people who lack perception. So I have as much right to write about prudence as I do to write about poetry or holiness. We write from aspiration and opposition, as well as from experience. We portray qualities we do not possess. The poet admires the man of energy and practical skill. The merchant raises his son for the church or the legal profession. When a man is not vain and self-centered, his praise tells you what he lacks. Moreover, it would hardly be honest of me not to balance these fine lyrical words about Love and Friendship with coarser words. My debt to my senses is real and constant, and I must acknowledge it in passing.

Prudence is the virtue of the senses. It is the science of appearances. It is the outmost action of the inward life. It is God taking thought for oxen. It moves matter after the laws of matter. It is content to seek health of body by complying with physical conditions, and health of mind by the laws of the intellect.

Prudence is the virtue of the senses. It is the science of appearances. It is the outward expression of inner life. It is God caring for oxen. It moves matter according to the laws of matter. It is content to seek physical health by observing physical conditions, and mental health by following the laws of the intellect.

The world of the senses is a world of shows; it does not exist for itself, but has a symbolic character; and a true prudence or law of shows recognizes the co-presence of other laws and knows that its own office is subaltern; knows that it is surface and not centre where it works. Prudence is false when detached. It is legitimate when it is the Natural History of the soul incarnate, when it unfolds the beauty of laws within the narrow scope of the senses.

The world of the senses is a world of appearances. It does not exist for its own sake, but has symbolic meaning. True prudence, or the law of appearances, recognizes that other laws exist alongside it. It knows that its own role is subordinate and that it works on the surface, not at the center. Prudence is false when separated from these other laws. It is legitimate when it is the natural history of the soul in bodily form. Then it reveals the beauty of laws within the narrow scope of the senses.

There are all degrees of proficiency in knowledge of the world. It is sufficient to our present purpose to indicate three. One class live to the utility of the symbol, esteeming health and wealth a final good. Another class live above this mark to the beauty of the symbol, as the poet and artist and the naturalist and man of science. A third class live above the beauty of the symbol to the beauty of the thing signified; these are wise men. The first class have common sense; the second, taste; and the third, spiritual perception. Once in a long time, a man traverses the whole scale, and sees and enjoys the symbol solidly, then also has a clear eye for its beauty, and lastly, whilst he pitches his tent on this sacred volcanic isle of nature, does not offer to build houses and barns thereon,—reverencing the splendor of the God which he sees bursting through each chink and cranny.

There are many degrees of knowledge of the world. For our present purpose, it is enough to describe three. One class lives for the usefulness of the symbol, treating health and wealth as ultimate goods. Another class rises above this level and lives for the beauty of the symbol. Poets, artists, naturalists, and scientists belong to this class. A third class rises above the beauty of the symbol to the beauty of what it represents. These people are wise. The first class has common sense, the second has taste, and the third has spiritual perception. Once in a great while, a person moves through the whole range. Such a person sees and enjoys the symbol as something real, and also has a clear eye for its beauty. Finally, while pitching a tent on this sacred volcanic island of nature, that person does not presume to build houses and barns there. Instead, they revere the splendor of God, which they see bursting through every crack and crevice.

The world is filled with the proverbs and acts and winkings of a base prudence, which is a devotion to matter, as if we possessed no other faculties than the palate, the nose, the touch, the eye and ear; a prudence which adores the Rule of Three, which never subscribes, which never gives, which seldom lends, and asks but one question of any project,—Will it bake bread? This is a disease like a thickening of the skin until the vital organs are destroyed. But culture, revealing the high origin of the apparent world and aiming at the perfection of the man as the end, degrades every thing else, as health and bodily life, into means. It sees prudence not to be a several faculty, but a name for wisdom and virtue conversing with the body and its wants. Cultivated men always feel and speak so, as if a great fortune, the achievement of a civil or social measure, great personal influence, a graceful and commanding address, had their value as proofs of the energy of the spirit. If a man lose his balance and immerse himself in any trades or pleasures for their own sake, he may be a good wheel or pin, but he is not a cultivated man.

The world is full of the sayings, actions, and knowing winks of a base kind of prudence. This prudence is devoted to material things, as if we had no faculties beyond taste, smell, touch, sight, and hearing. It worships the Rule of Three. It never contributes, never gives, and seldom lends. It asks only one question about any undertaking: Will it bake bread? This prudence is a disease, like a thickening of the skin until the vital organs are destroyed. But culture reveals the high origin of the visible world and aims at the perfection of the person. It makes everything else, including health and bodily life, a means to that end. Culture sees prudence not as a separate faculty, but as wisdom and virtue dealing with the body and its needs. Cultivated people always feel and speak as if a great fortune had value as proof of the spirit’s energy. So, too, with the achievement of a civic or social reform, great personal influence, or a graceful and commanding manner. If a man loses his balance and immerses himself in business or pleasure for its own sake, he may be a good wheel or pin, but he is not a cultivated man.

The spurious prudence, making the senses final, is the god of sots and cowards, and is the subject of all comedy. It is nature’s joke, and therefore literature’s. The true prudence limits this sensualism by admitting the knowledge of an internal and real world. This recognition once made, the order of the world and the distribution of affairs and times, being studied with the co-perception of their subordinate place, will reward any degree of attention. For our existence, thus apparently attached in nature to the sun and the returning moon and the periods which they mark,—so susceptible to climate and to country, so alive to social good and evil, so fond of splendor and so tender to hunger and cold and debt,—reads all its primary lessons out of these books.

False prudence treats the senses as the final authority. It is the god of drunkards and cowards, and the subject of all comedy. It is nature’s joke, and therefore literature’s too. True prudence limits this devotion to the senses by recognizing a real inner world. Once we recognize that world, we can study the order of the world and the arrangement of affairs and seasons. As long as we understand their lesser place, they will reward any amount of attention. For our existence seems bound by nature to the sun, the returning moon, and the cycles they mark. We are so affected by climate and country, and so alive to the good and evil of society. We are so fond of splendor and so vulnerable to hunger, cold, and debt. We learn all our first lessons from these books.

Prudence does not go behind nature and ask whence it is. It takes the laws of the world whereby man’s being is conditioned, as they are, and keeps these laws that it may enjoy their proper good. It respects space and time, climate, want, sleep, the law of polarity, growth and death. There revolve, to give bound and period to his being on all sides, the sun and moon, the great formalists in the sky: here lies stubborn matter, and will not swerve from its chemical routine. Here is a planted globe, pierced and belted with natural laws and fenced and distributed externally with civil partitions and properties which impose new restraints on the young inhabitant.

Prudence does not look beyond nature and ask where it comes from. It accepts the laws of the world that shape human existence as they are. It follows those laws so that it may enjoy the benefits they provide. Prudence respects space and time, climate, need, sleep, the law of polarity, growth, and death. The sun and moon revolve overhead, setting limits and cycles on every side of human life. They are the great rule followers in the sky. Here lies stubborn matter, which will not depart from its chemical routine. Here is a world planted with life, pierced and encircled by natural laws. It is also fenced and divided by human boundaries and property lines, which place new restraints on its young inhabitants.

We eat of the bread which grows in the field. We live by the air which blows around us and we are poisoned by the air that is too cold or too hot, too dry or too wet. Time, which shows so vacant, indivisible and divine in its coming, is slit and peddled into trifles and tatters. A door is to be painted, a lock to be repaired. I want wood or oil, or meal or salt; the house smokes, or I have a headache; then the tax, and an affair to be transacted with a man without heart or brains, and the stinging recollection of an injurious or very awkward word,—these eat up the hours. Do what we can, summer will have its flies; if we walk in the woods we must feed mosquitos; if we go a-fishing we must expect a wet coat. Then climate is a great impediment to idle persons; we often resolve to give up the care of the weather, but still we regard the clouds and the rain.

We eat bread made from grain grown in the fields. We live on the air around us, yet air that is too cold or hot, too dry or wet, poisons us. Time arrives seeming so empty, indivisible, and divine. Yet we cut it up and spend it on scraps and trifles. A door needs painting, a lock needs repair. I need wood, oil, flour, or salt. The house fills with smoke, or I have a headache. Then there are taxes and business to conduct with someone who has neither heart nor brains. And there is the stinging memory of a hurtful or very awkward remark. These things eat up the hours. Whatever we do, summer will bring flies. If we walk in the woods, we must feed mosquitoes. If we go fishing, we must expect a wet coat. Climate, too, is a great obstacle to idle people. We often resolve to stop worrying about the weather, but we still watch the clouds and the rain.

We are instructed by these petty experiences which usurp the hours and years. The hard soil and four months of snow make the inhabitant of the northern temperate zone wiser and abler than his fellow who enjoys the fixed smile of the tropics. The islander may ramble all day at will. At night he may sleep on a mat under the moon, and wherever a wild date-tree grows, nature has, without a prayer even, spread a table for his morning meal. The northerner is perforce a householder. He must brew, bake, salt and preserve his food, and pile wood and coal. But as it happens that not one stroke can labor lay to without some new acquaintance with nature, and as nature is inexhaustibly significant, the inhabitants of these climates have always excelled the southerner in force. Such is the value of these matters that a man who knows other things can never know too much of these. Let him have accurate perceptions. Let him, if he have hands, handle; if eyes, measure and discriminate; let him accept and hive every fact of chemistry, natural history and economics; the more he has, the less is he willing to spare any one. Time is always bringing the occasions that disclose their value. Some wisdom comes out of every natural and innocent action. The domestic man, who loves no music so well as his kitchen clock and the airs which the logs sing to him as they burn on the hearth, has solaces which others never dream of. The application of means to ends insures victory and the songs of victory not less in a farm or a shop than in the tactics of party or of war. The good husband finds method as efficient in the packing of fire-wood in a shed or in the harvesting of fruits in the cellar, as in Peninsular campaigns or the files of the Department of State. In the rainy day he builds a work-bench, or gets his tool-box set in the corner of the barn-chamber, and stored with nails, gimlet, pincers, screwdriver and chisel. Herein he tastes an old joy of youth and childhood, the cat-like love of garrets, presses and corn-chambers, and of the conveniences of long housekeeping. His garden or his poultry-yard tells him many pleasant anecdotes. One might find argument for optimism in the abundant flow of this saccharine element of pleasure in every suburb and extremity of the good world. Let a man keep the law,—any law,—and his way will be strown with satisfactions. There is more difference in the quality of our pleasures than in the amount.

We learn from the small experiences that take over our hours and years. Hard soil and four months of snow make someone in the northern temperate zone wiser and more capable than someone who enjoys the constant smile of the tropics. The islander may wander freely all day. At night he may sleep on a mat under the moon. Wherever a wild date tree grows, nature has set out his breakfast without his even asking. The northerner, by necessity, must keep a home. He must brew, bake, salt, and preserve his food, and stockpile wood and coal. But no one can do a stroke of work without learning something new about nature. And nature is endlessly full of meaning. That is why the inhabitants of these climates have always surpassed southerners in strength. These practical matters are so valuable that a man who knows other things can never know too much about them. Let him observe accurately. If he has hands, let him handle things. If he has eyes, let him measure and distinguish. Let him take in and store up every fact about chemistry, natural history, and economics. The more facts he has, the less willing he is to give up any one of them. Time always brings occasions that reveal their value. Some wisdom comes from every natural and innocent action. The man who loves home has comforts others never dream of. No music pleases him more than his kitchen clock and the tunes the logs sing as they burn in the fireplace. Using the right means to achieve an end brings victory and songs of victory. This is as true on a farm or in a shop as it is in party politics or war. A good householder finds that order is effective when stacking firewood in a shed or storing harvested fruit in a cellar. It is just as effective in the Peninsular campaigns or in the files of the Department of State. On a rainy day he builds a workbench or sets up his toolbox in a corner of the loft above the barn. He stocks it with nails, a gimlet, pincers, a screwdriver, and a chisel. In doing this, he tastes an old pleasure from his youth and childhood. It is the catlike love of attics, cupboards, and grain rooms, and of the conveniences that come from keeping a home for many years. His garden or chicken yard tells him many pleasant stories. One might find a reason for optimism in this abundant flow of sweet pleasure. It reaches every suburb and every farthest corner of the good world. Let a man obey the law, any law, and his path will be scattered with satisfactions. There is more difference in the quality of our pleasures than in their amount.

On the other hand, nature punishes any neglect of prudence. If you think the senses final, obey their law. If you believe in the soul, do not clutch at sensual sweetness before it is ripe on the slow tree of cause and effect. It is vinegar to the eyes to deal with men of loose and imperfect perception. Dr. Johnson is reported to have said,—“If the child says he looked out of this window, when he looked out of that,—whip him.” Our American character is marked by a more than average delight in accurate perception, which is shown by the currency of the byword, “No mistake.” But the discomfort of unpunctuality, of confusion of thought about facts, of inattention to the wants of to-morrow, is of no nation. The beautiful laws of time and space, once dislocated by our inaptitude, are holes and dens. If the hive be disturbed by rash and stupid hands, instead of honey it will yield us bees. Our words and actions to be fair must be timely. A gay and pleasant sound is the whetting of the scythe in the mornings of June, yet what is more lonesome and sad than the sound of a whetstone or mower’s rifle when it is too late in the season to make hay? Scatter-brained and “afternoon” men spoil much more than their own affair in spoiling the temper of those who deal with them. I have seen a criticism on some paintings, of which I am reminded when I see the shiftless and unhappy men who are not true to their senses. The last Grand Duke of Weimar, a man of superior understanding, said,—“I have sometimes remarked in the presence of great works of art, and just now especially in Dresden, how much a certain property contributes to the effect which gives life to the figures, and to the life an irresistible truth. This property is the hitting, in all the figures we draw, the right centre of gravity. I mean the placing the figures firm upon their feet, making the hands grasp, and fastening the eyes on the spot where they should look. Even lifeless figures, as vessels and stools—let them be drawn ever so correctly—lose all effect so soon as they lack the resting upon their centre of gravity, and have a certain swimming and oscillating appearance. The Raphael in the Dresden gallery (the only greatly affecting picture which I have seen) is the quietest and most passionless piece you can imagine; a couple of saints who worship the Virgin and Child. Nevertheless, it awakens a deeper impression than the contortions of ten crucified martyrs. For beside all the resistless beauty of form, it possesses in the highest degree the property of the perpendicularity of all the figures.” This perpendicularity we demand of all the figures in this picture of life. Let them stand on their feet, and not float and swing. Let us know where to find them. Let them discriminate between what they remember and what they dreamed, call a spade a spade, give us facts, and honor their own senses with trust.

On the other hand, nature punishes any neglect of prudence. If you believe the senses have the final say, obey their law. If you believe in the soul, do not grasp for sensual pleasures before they ripen on the slow tree of cause and effect. Dealing with people whose perceptions are careless and inaccurate is painful to the eye. Dr. Johnson is said to have declared, “If a child says he looked out of this window when he looked out of that one, whip him.” Americans take more than average pleasure in accurate perception. The popularity of the saying “No mistake” shows this. But the discomfort caused by lateness, confusion about facts, and inattention to tomorrow’s needs belongs to no single nation. The beautiful laws of time and space become holes and dens when our clumsiness puts them out of joint. If rash and stupid hands disturb the hive, it will give us bees instead of honey. Our words and actions must be timely to be right. The sound of a scythe being sharpened on a June morning is cheerful and pleasant. Yet what is lonelier and sadder than the sound of a whetstone or a mower’s sharpening steel when it is too late in the season to make hay? Scatterbrained and “afternoon” men spoil much more than their own affairs. They also spoil the temper of those who deal with them. When I see these shiftless, unhappy men who do not trust their senses, I recall a comment on some paintings. The last Grand Duke of Weimar, a man of superior understanding, said, “I have sometimes noticed how much a certain quality adds to the effect of great works of art. I noticed it especially just now in Dresden. This quality gives life to the figures and an irresistible truth to that life. It means getting the center of gravity right in every figure we draw. By this I mean placing the figures firmly on their feet, making their hands grasp, and fixing their eyes where they should be looking. Even lifeless objects, such as vessels and stools, lose all their effect if they do not rest on their centers of gravity. They lose this effect no matter how accurately they are drawn, and they seem to float and sway. The Raphael in the Dresden gallery is the only deeply moving picture I have seen. It is the calmest and least emotional work you can imagine: a couple of saints worship the Virgin and Child. Nevertheless, it makes a deeper impression than the contortions of ten crucified martyrs. Besides its irresistible beauty of form, the picture has, to the highest degree, the quality of making every figure stand upright.” We demand this same uprightness of every figure in the picture of life. Let them stand on their feet, not float and sway. Let us know where to find them. Let them distinguish what they remember from what they dreamed. Let them call a spade a spade, give us facts, and honor their own senses by trusting them.

But what man shall dare tax another with imprudence? Who is prudent? The men we call greatest are least in this kingdom. There is a certain fatal dislocation in our relation to nature, distorting our modes of living and making every law our enemy, which seems at last to have aroused all the wit and virtue in the world to ponder the question of Reform. We must call the highest prudence to counsel, and ask why health and beauty and genius should now be the exception rather than the rule of human nature? We do not know the properties of plants and animals and the laws of nature, through our sympathy with the same; but this remains the dream of poets. Poetry and prudence should be coincident. Poets should be lawgivers; that is, the boldest lyric inspiration should not chide and insult, but should announce and lead the civil code and the day’s work. But now the two things seem irreconcilably parted. We have violated law upon law until we stand amidst ruins, and when by chance we espy a coincidence between reason and the phenomena, we are surprised. Beauty should be the dowry of every man and woman, as invariably as sensation; but it is rare. Health or sound organization should be universal. Genius should be the child of genius and every child should be inspired; but now it is not to be predicted of any child, and nowhere is it pure. We call partial half-lights, by courtesy, genius; talent which converts itself to money; talent which glitters to-day that it may dine and sleep well to-morrow; and society is officered by men of parts, as they are properly called, and not by divine men. These use their gifts to refine luxury, not to abolish it. Genius is always ascetic, and piety, and love. Appetite shows to the finer souls as a disease, and they find beauty in rites and bounds that resist it.

But who would dare accuse another person of poor judgment? Who is truly prudent? The people we call greatest have the least prudence. Something has gone deeply wrong in our relationship with nature. It distorts how we live and turns every law against us. At last, this seems to have stirred all the intelligence and virtue in the world to consider the question of Reform. We must seek the wisest counsel and ask why health, beauty, and genius are now exceptions rather than the rule in human nature. We do not understand plants, animals, and the laws of nature through our kinship with them. That remains the dream of poets. Poetry and prudence should be one. Poets should be lawmakers. The boldest lyric inspiration should not scold and insult our civil laws and daily work. It should announce and guide them. But now poetry and prudence seem impossible to reconcile. We have violated one law after another until we stand among ruins. When we happen to see reason reflected in the world around us, we are surprised. Beauty should be the natural gift of every man and woman, as surely as the capacity to feel. Yet beauty is rare. Everyone should be healthy and sound in body. Genius should be born of genius, and every child should be inspired. But now we cannot predict genius in any child, and nowhere is genius pure. We politely call partial glimpses of light genius. We call talent genius when it turns itself into money. We call it genius when it shines today so that it can eat and sleep well tomorrow. Society is led by men of parts, as they are rightly called, rather than by divine men. These men use their gifts to refine luxury, not to abolish it. Genius is always self-denial, reverence, and love. To more sensitive souls, appetite appears to be a disease. They find beauty in practices and limits that resist appetite.

We have found out fine names to cover our sensuality withal, but no gifts can raise intemperance. The man of talent affects to call his transgressions of the laws of the senses trivial and to count them nothing considered with his devotion to his art. His art never taught him lewdness, nor the love of wine, nor the wish to reap where he had not sowed. His art is less for every deduction from his holiness, and less for every defect of common sense. On him who scorned the world as he said, the scorned world wreaks its revenge. He that despiseth small things will perish by little and little. Goethe’s Tasso is very likely to be a pretty fair historical portrait, and that is true tragedy. It does not seem to me so genuine grief when some tyrannous Richard the Third oppresses and slays a score of innocent persons, as when Antonio and Tasso, both apparently right, wrong each other. One living after the maxims of this world and consistent and true to them, the other fired with all divine sentiments, yet grasping also at the pleasures of sense, without submitting to their law. That is a grief we all feel, a knot we cannot untie. Tasso’s is no infrequent case in modern biography. A man of genius, of an ardent temperament, reckless of physical laws, self-indulgent, becomes presently unfortunate, querulous, a “discomfortable cousin,” a thorn to himself and to others.

We have found fine names to cover our sensuality, but no gifts can elevate self-indulgence. The talented man pretends that his violations of the laws of the senses are trivial. He counts them as nothing compared with his devotion to his art. But his art never taught him lust, love of wine, or the wish to reap where he had not sown. His art is diminished by every loss of moral purity and every lack of common sense. He says he scorns the world, but the world he scorns takes its revenge on him. Anyone who despises small things will perish little by little. Goethe’s Tasso is very likely a fairly accurate historical portrait, and that is true tragedy. To me, it is not as genuine a cause for grief when a tyrant like Richard the Third oppresses and kills twenty innocent people. It is more genuinely tragic when Antonio and Tasso wrong each other, though both seem to be right. One lives by the principles of this world and is consistent and true to them. The other burns with every divine feeling, yet also grasps at sensory pleasures without submitting to their law. That is a grief we all feel, a knot we cannot untie. Tasso’s case is not uncommon in modern biography. A man of genius and passionate temperament disregards physical laws and indulges himself. He soon becomes unfortunate and complaining, a “discomfortable cousin,” a thorn to himself and others.

The scholar shames us by his bifold life. Whilst something higher than prudence is active, he is admirable; when common sense is wanted, he is an encumbrance. Yesterday, Cæsar was not so great; to-day, the felon at the gallows’ foot is not more miserable. Yesterday, radiant with the light of an ideal world in which he lives, the first of men; and now oppressed by wants and by sickness, for which he must thank himself. He resembles the pitiful drivellers whom travellers describe as frequenting the bazaars of Constantinople, who skulk about all day, yellow, emaciated, ragged, sneaking; and at evening, when the bazaars are open, slink to the opium-shop, swallow their morsel and become tranquil and glorified seers. And who has not seen the tragedy of imprudent genius struggling for years with paltry pecuniary difficulties, at last sinking, chilled, exhausted and fruitless, like a giant slaughtered by pins?

The scholar shames us with his double life. When something higher than caution is at work in him, he is admirable. But when common sense is needed, he is a burden. Yesterday, even Caesar was not so great. Today, even the criminal at the foot of the gallows is no more miserable. Yesterday, he was the greatest of men, radiant with the light of the ideal world he inhabits. Now he is weighed down by need and sickness, and he has only himself to thank for them. He resembles the pitiful fools whom travelers describe as frequenting the bazaars of Constantinople. All day they skulk about, yellow, thin, ragged, and furtive. In the evening, when the bazaars are open, they slink into the opium shop. They swallow their dose and become calm, glorious visionaries. And who has not seen the tragedy of a reckless genius struggling for years with petty money troubles? At last, he sinks, chilled, exhausted, and having achieved nothing, like a giant killed by pins.

Is it not better that a man should accept the first pains and mortifications of this sort, which nature is not slack in sending him, as hints that he must expect no other good than the just fruit of his own labor and self-denial? Health, bread, climate, social position, have their importance, and he will give them their due. Let him esteem Nature a perpetual counsellor, and her perfections the exact measure of our deviations. Let him make the night night, and the day day. Let him control the habit of expense. Let him see that as much wisdom may be expended on a private economy as on an empire, and as much wisdom may be drawn from it. The laws of the world are written out for him on every piece of money in his hand. There is nothing he will not be the better for knowing, were it only the wisdom of Poor Richard, or the State-Street prudence of buying by the acre to sell by the foot; or the thrift of the agriculturist, to stick a tree between whiles, because it will grow whilst he sleeps; or the prudence which consists in husbanding little strokes of the tool, little portions of time, particles of stock and small gains. The eye of prudence may never shut. Iron, if kept at the ironmonger’s, will rust; beer, if not brewed in the right state of the atmosphere, will sour; timber of ships will rot at sea, or if laid up high and dry, will strain, warp and dry-rot; money, if kept by us, yields no rent and is liable to loss; if invested, is liable to depreciation of the particular kind of stock. Strike, says the smith, the iron is white; keep the rake, says the haymaker, as nigh the scythe as you can, and the cart as nigh the rake. Our Yankee trade is reputed to be very much on the extreme of this prudence. It takes bank-notes, good, bad, clean, ragged, and saves itself by the speed with which it passes them off. Iron cannot rust, nor beer sour, nor timber rot, nor calicoes go out of fashion, nor money stocks depreciate, in the few swift moments in which the Yankee suffers any one of them to remain in his possession. In skating over thin ice our safety is in our speed.

Would it not be better for a man to accept the first pains and humiliations of this kind as warnings? Nature is quick to send them. They warn him to expect no reward beyond what he rightly earns through his own work and self-denial. Health, food, climate, and social position matter, and he will give them their due. Let him regard Nature as a constant adviser, and her perfections as the exact measure of how far we fall short. Let him make night a time for night, and day a time for day. Let him control his spending. He can use as much wisdom in managing his own household as in governing an empire. He can also learn as much wisdom from it. The laws of the world are written out for him on every piece of money in his hand. Everything he learns will benefit him. This includes even the wisdom of Poor Richard, or the State-Street prudence of buying land by the acre and selling it by the foot. It includes the farmer’s thrift in planting a tree in spare moments, because it will grow while he sleeps. It also includes the prudence of conserving small strokes of a tool, small portions of time, bits of stock, and small gains. Prudence must never close its eyes. Iron will rust if it sits in the ironmonger’s shop. Beer will sour if it is not brewed in the right atmospheric conditions. Ship timbers will rot at sea. If laid up high and dry, they will strain, warp, and dry-rot. Money kept at home earns no interest and may be lost. If invested, it may lose value because that particular investment declines. Strike, says the blacksmith, the iron is white-hot. Keep the rake as close behind the scythe as you can, says the haymaker, and the cart as close behind the rake. Our Yankee trade is known for carrying this prudence to an extreme. It accepts banknotes of every kind, good or bad, clean or ragged. It protects itself by passing them along quickly. Iron cannot rust, beer cannot sour, timber cannot rot, calicoes cannot go out of fashion, and investments cannot lose value. None can happen in the few swift moments a Yankee allows any of them to remain in his possession. When skating over thin ice, our safety lies in our speed.

Let him learn a prudence of a higher strain. Let him learn that every thing in nature, even motes and feathers, go by law and not by luck, and that what he sows he reaps. By diligence and self-command let him put the bread he eats at his own disposal, that he may not stand in bitter and false relations to other men; for the best good of wealth is freedom. Let him practise the minor virtues. How much of human life is lost in waiting! let him not make his fellow-creatures wait. How many words and promises are promises of conversation! Let his be words of fate. When he sees a folded and sealed scrap of paper float round the globe in a pine ship and come safe to the eye for which it was written, amidst a swarming population, let him likewise feel the admonition to integrate his being across all these distracting forces, and keep a slender human word among the storms, distances and accidents that drive us hither and thither, and, by persistency, make the paltry force of one man reappear to redeem its pledge after months and years in the most distant climates.

Let him learn a higher kind of prudence. Let him learn that everything in nature, even specks of dust and feathers, follows laws rather than luck. Let him learn, too, that he reaps what he sows. Through hard work and self-control, let him earn his own bread. Then he need not stand in bitter and false relationships with other people, for the greatest benefit of wealth is freedom. Let him practice the smaller virtues. How much of human life is lost in waiting! Let him not make other people wait. How many words and promises are made merely for the sake of conversation! Let his words be as certain as fate. A folded and sealed scrap of paper can travel around the globe in a pine ship. It can arrive safely, among a teeming population, before the eyes of the person it was written for. When he sees this, let him take it as a lesson. Let him hold himself together amid all the forces that distract him. Let him keep his fragile human word amid the storms, distances, and accidents that drive us here and there. By persistence, let him make the small power of one man reappear after months and years in the most distant climates to fulfill his promise.

We must not try to write the laws of any one virtue, looking at that only. Human nature loves no contradictions, but is symmetrical. The prudence which secures an outward well-being is not to be studied by one set of men, whilst heroism and holiness are studied by another, but they are reconcilable. Prudence concerns the present time, persons, property and existing forms. But as every fact hath its roots in the soul, and if the soul were changed, would cease to be, or would become some other thing,—the proper administration of outward things will always rest on a just apprehension of their cause and origin; that is, the good man will be the wise man, and the single-hearted the politic man. Every violation of truth is not only a sort of suicide in the liar, but is a stab at the health of human society. On the most profitable lie the course of events presently lays a destructive tax; whilst frankness invites frankness, puts the parties on a convenient footing and makes their business a friendship. Trust men and they will be true to you; treat them greatly and they will show themselves great, though they make an exception in your favor to all their rules of trade.

We must not try to lay down the rules for any one virtue by looking at that virtue alone. Human nature does not like contradictions. It is balanced. Prudence secures outward well-being, but one group of people should not study prudence while another studies heroism and holiness. These virtues can be reconciled. Prudence concerns the present, people, property, and existing ways of doing things. But every fact has its roots in the soul. If the soul changed, each fact would cease to exist or become something else. So managing outward things properly always depends on a sound understanding of their cause and origin. In other words, the good person will be wise, and the sincere person will know how to act prudently. Every violation of truth is not only a kind of suicide for the liar. It is also a blow to the health of human society. Even the most profitable lie soon brings a damaging cost as events unfold. By contrast, openness invites openness. It puts both parties on comfortable terms and turns their business into a friendship. Trust people, and they will be true to you. Treat them as great, and they will show themselves to be great. They will do so even if they have to make an exception for you to all their rules of business.

So, in regard to disagreeable and formidable things, prudence does not consist in evasion or in flight, but in courage. He who wishes to walk in the most peaceful parts of life with any serenity must screw himself up to resolution. Let him front the object of his worst apprehension, and his stoutness will commonly make his fear groundless. The Latin proverb says, “In battles the eye is first overcome.” Entire self-possession may make a battle very little more dangerous to life than a match at foils or at football. Examples are cited by soldiers of men who have seen the cannon pointed and the fire given to it, and who have stepped aside from the path of the ball. The terrors of the storm are chiefly confined to the parlor and the cabin. The drover, the sailor, buffets it all day, and his health renews itself at as vigorous a pulse under the sleet as under the sun of June.

So, when faced with unpleasant and daunting things, prudence lies not in avoidance or flight, but in courage. Anyone who wishes to move serenely through even the most peaceful parts of life must summon their resolve. Let them face what they fear most, and their courage will usually make their fear groundless. The Latin proverb says, “In battles the eye is first overcome.” Complete self-control may make a battle little more dangerous to life than a fencing match or a game of football. Soldiers tell of men who saw a cannon aimed and fired, then stepped out of the cannonball’s path. The terrors of a storm are felt chiefly in the parlor and the cabin. The drover and the sailor endure the storm all day. Their health renews itself with a pulse as vigorous in the sleet as in the June sun.

In the occurrence of unpleasant things among neighbors, fear comes readily to heart and magnifies the consequence of the other party; but it is a bad counsellor. Every man is actually weak and apparently strong. To himself he seems weak; to others, formidable. You are afraid of Grim; but Grim also is afraid of you. You are solicitous of the good-will of the meanest person, uneasy at his ill-will. But the sturdiest offender of your peace and of the neighborhood, if you rip up his claims, is as thin and timid as any, and the peace of society is often kept, because, as children say, one is afraid, and the other dares not. Far off, men swell, bully and threaten; bring them hand to hand, and they are a feeble folk.

When unpleasant things happen among neighbors, fear readily takes hold and makes the other person seem more powerful. But fear is a bad adviser. Every person is actually weak and appears strong. To himself, a person seems weak. To others, he seems formidable. You are afraid of Grim, but Grim is also afraid of you. You care about the goodwill of even the most insignificant person and feel uneasy at his ill will. But even the toughest person who disturbs your peace and the neighborhood is as frail and timid as anyone, if you examine his claims. Peace is often kept in society because, as children say, one is afraid, and the other dares not. At a distance, people puff themselves up, bully, and threaten. Bring them face to face, and they are a feeble lot.

It is a proverb that ‘courtesy costs nothing’; but calculation might come to value love for its profit. Love is fabled to be blind, but kindness is necessary to perception; love is not a hood, but an eye-water. If you meet a sectary or a hostile partisan, never recognize the dividing lines, but meet on what common ground remains,—if only that the sun shines and the rain rains for both; the area will widen very fast, and ere you know it, the boundary mountains on which the eye had fastened have melted into air. If they set out to contend, Saint Paul will lie and Saint John will hate. What low, poor, paltry, hypocritical people an argument on religion will make of the pure and chosen souls! They will shuffle and crow, crook and hide, feign to confess here, only that they may brag and conquer there, and not a thought has enriched either party, and not an emotion of bravery, modesty, or hope. So neither should you put yourself in a false position with your contemporaries by indulging a vein of hostility and bitterness. Though your views are in straight antagonism to theirs, assume an identity of sentiment, assume that you are saying precisely that which all think, and in the flow of wit and love roll out your paradoxes in solid column, with not the infirmity of a doubt. So at least shall you get an adequate deliverance. The natural motions of the soul are so much better than the voluntary ones that you will never do yourself justice in dispute. The thought is not then taken hold of by the right handle, does not show itself proportioned and in its true bearings, but bears extorted, hoarse, and half witness. But assume a consent and it shall presently be granted, since really and underneath their external diversities, all men are of one heart and mind.

There is a proverb that ‘courtesy costs nothing’. But even a calculating person might value love for its rewards. People say love is blind, but kindness is necessary for seeing clearly. Love is not a blindfold, but a soothing wash for the eyes. If you meet a sectarian or a hostile partisan, never acknowledge the lines that divide you. Instead, meet on whatever common ground remains, even if it is only that the sun shines and rain falls on you both. That common ground will widen very quickly. Before you know it, the mountains marking the boundary, on which your eyes had fixed, will have melted into air. If people set out to argue, Saint Paul will lie and Saint John will hate. How base, poor, petty, and hypocritical an argument about religion can make even the purest and most chosen souls! They will evade and boast, twist and hide. They will pretend to admit a fault in one place, only so they can boast and win in another. And neither side gains a single thought or feels any bravery, modesty, or hope. So you, too, should not put yourself in a false position with your contemporaries by giving in to hostility and bitterness. Though your views directly oppose theirs, assume that you share their feelings. Assume that you are saying exactly what everyone thinks. Let your paradoxes pour out in a solid column, carried by wit and love, without the slightest weakness of doubt. At least then you will express yourself adequately. The soul’s natural movements are so much better than its deliberate ones that you will never do yourself justice in a dispute. In a dispute, you do not grasp a thought by the right handle. It does not appear in its proper proportions and true relationships. Instead, it gives forced, hoarse, and incomplete testimony. But assume agreement, and agreement will soon be granted. For beneath all their outward differences, all people really share one heart and mind.

Wisdom will never let us stand with any man or men on an unfriendly footing. We refuse sympathy and intimacy with people, as if we waited for some better sympathy and intimacy to come. But whence and when? To-morrow will be like to-day. Life wastes itself whilst we are preparing to live. Our friends and fellow-workers die off from us. Scarcely can we say we see new men, new women, approaching us. We are too old to regard fashion, too old to expect patronage of any greater or more powerful. Let us suck the sweetness of those affections and consuetudes that grow near us. These old shoes are easy to the feet. Undoubtedly we can easily pick faults in our company, can easily whisper names prouder, and that tickle the fancy more. Every man’s imagination hath its friends; and life would be dearer with such companions. But if you cannot have them on good mutual terms, you cannot have them. If not the Deity but our ambition hews and shapes the new relations, their virtue escapes, as strawberries lose their flavor in garden-beds.

Wisdom will never let us remain on unfriendly terms with anyone. We refuse sympathy and closeness with people, as if we were waiting for something better to come. But where will it come from, and when? Tomorrow will be like today. Life slips away while we prepare to live. Our friends and coworkers die. We can hardly say that we see new men and women coming into our lives. We are too old to care about fashion, too old to expect support from anyone greater or more powerful. Let us enjoy the sweetness of the affections and familiar habits that grow close to us. These old shoes are comfortable on our feet. No doubt we can easily find fault with the people around us. We can easily whisper more prestigious names that appeal more to our fancy. Everyone imagines ideal friends, and life would be dearer with such companions. But if you cannot have them on good terms with each other, you cannot have them at all. If our ambition, rather than God, shapes these new relationships, their virtue disappears, just as strawberries lose their flavor in garden beds.

Thus truth, frankness, courage, love, humility and all the virtues range themselves on the side of prudence, or the art of securing a present well-being. I do not know if all matter will be found to be made of one element, as oxygen or hydrogen, at last, but the world of manners and actions is wrought of one stuff, and begin where we will we are pretty sure in a short space to be mumbling our ten commandments.

So truth, honesty, courage, love, humility, and all the virtues support prudence, the art of securing well-being in the present. I do not know whether all matter will ultimately be found to consist of one element, such as oxygen or hydrogen. But manners and actions are all made of the same stuff. Wherever we begin, we are pretty sure to find ourselves muttering the Ten Commandments before long.