Circles

The eye is the first circle; the horizon which it forms is the second; and throughout nature this primary figure is repeated without end. It is the highest emblem in the cipher of the world. St. Augustine described the nature of God as a circle whose centre was everywhere and its circumference nowhere. We are all our lifetime reading the copious sense of this first of forms. One moral we have already deduced, in considering the circular or compensatory character of every human action. Another analogy we shall now trace, that every action admits of being outdone. Our life is an apprenticeship to the truth that around every circle another can be drawn; that there is no end in nature, but every end is a beginning; that there is always another dawn risen on mid-noon, and under every deep a lower deep opens.

The eye is the first circle. The horizon it forms is the second. Throughout nature, this basic shape repeats endlessly. The circle is the highest symbol in the coded language of the world. St. Augustine described the nature of God as a circle whose center was everywhere and whose circumference was nowhere. All our lives, we are learning the many meanings of this first shape. We have already drawn one lesson from the circular or balancing nature of every human action. Now we will follow another analogy: every action can be surpassed. Life teaches us that another circle can be drawn around every circle. There is no end in nature, because every end is a beginning. Another dawn always rises at midday, and beneath every depth a deeper one opens.

This fact, as far as it symbolizes the moral fact of the Unattainable, the flying Perfect, around which the hands of man can never meet, at once the inspirer and the condemner of every success, may conveniently serve us to connect many illustrations of human power in every department.

This fact symbolizes the moral truth of the Unattainable, the ever-receding Perfect that people can never fully grasp. The Perfect both inspires and judges every success. To the extent that this fact symbolizes the Unattainable, it may help us connect many examples of human power in every field.

There are no fixtures in nature. The universe is fluid and volatile. Permanence is but a word of degrees. Our globe seen by God is a transparent law, not a mass of facts. The law dissolves the fact and holds it fluid. Our culture is the predominance of an idea which draws after it this train of cities and institutions. Let us rise into another idea: they will disappear. The Greek sculpture is all melted away, as if it had been statues of ice; here and there a solitary figure or fragment remaining, as we see flecks and scraps of snow left in cold dells and mountain clefts in June and July. For the genius that created it creates now somewhat else. The Greek letters last a little longer, but are already passing under the same sentence and tumbling into the inevitable pit which the creation of new thought opens for all that is old. The new continents are built out of the ruins of an old planet; the new races fed out of the decomposition of the foregoing. New arts destroy the old. See the investment of capital in aqueducts made useless by hydraulics; fortifications, by gunpowder; roads and canals, by railways; sails, by steam; steam by electricity.

Nothing in nature is fixed. The universe is fluid and volatile. Permanence is only a matter of degree. As God sees it, our globe is a transparent law, not a mass of facts. The law dissolves each fact and keeps it fluid. Our culture is shaped by a dominant idea, which brings with it this whole array of cities and institutions. Let us rise to another idea, and the cities and institutions will disappear. Greek sculpture has all melted away, as if the sculptures had been statues of ice. Here and there, a lone figure or fragment remains. They are like the patches and scraps of snow left in cold valleys and mountain crevices in June and July. For the creative spirit that made Greek sculpture now creates something else. Greek literature lasts a little longer, but it is already meeting the same fate. It is falling into the inevitable pit that new thought opens for everything old. New continents are built from the ruins of an old planet. New races are nourished by the remains of those that came before them. New arts destroy the old. Consider the money invested in aqueducts, made useless by hydraulics. Fortifications were made useless by gunpowder, roads and canals by railways, sails by steam, and steam by electricity.

You admire this tower of granite, weathering the hurts of so many ages. Yet a little waving hand built this huge wall, and that which builds is better than that which is built. The hand that built can topple it down much faster. Better than the hand and nimbler was the invisible thought which wrought through it; and thus ever, behind the coarse effect, is a fine cause, which, being narrowly seen, is itself the effect of a finer cause. Every thing looks permanent until its secret is known. A rich estate appears to women a firm and lasting fact; to a merchant, one easily created out of any materials, and easily lost. An orchard, good tillage, good grounds, seem a fixture, like a gold mine, or a river, to a citizen; but to a large farmer, not much more fixed than the state of the crop. Nature looks provokingly stable and secular, but it has a cause like all the rest; and when once I comprehend that, will these fields stretch so immovably wide, these leaves hang so individually considerable? Permanence is a word of degrees. Every thing is medial. Moons are no more bounds to spiritual power than bat-balls.

You admire this granite tower, which has endured the damage of so many ages. Yet a small, moving hand built this huge wall, and the builder is better than what is built. The hand that built the wall can tear it down much faster. Better and quicker than the hand was the invisible thought that worked through it. So behind every rough effect is a subtle cause. Look closely, and that cause is itself the effect of a subtler cause. Everything looks permanent until its secret is known. To women, a rich estate appears to be a firm and lasting fact. To a merchant, it is something easily created from any materials and easily lost. To a city dweller, an orchard, well-tilled soil, and good land seem as fixed as a gold mine or a river. But to a large-scale farmer, they seem little more fixed than the condition of the crop. Nature seems frustratingly stable and enduring, but it has a cause like everything else. Once I understand that cause, will these fields still stretch so immovably wide? Will these leaves still hang there, each seeming so important? Permanence is a matter of degree. Everything is a means to something else. Moons are no more limits to spiritual power than balls used in bat games.

The key to every man is his thought. Sturdy and defying though he look, he has a helm which he obeys, which is the idea after which all his facts are classified. He can only be reformed by showing him a new idea which commands his own. The life of man is a self-evolving circle, which, from a ring imperceptibly small, rushes on all sides outwards to new and larger circles, and that without end. The extent to which this generation of circles, wheel without wheel, will go, depends on the force or truth of the individual soul. For it is the inert effort of each thought, having formed itself into a circular wave of circumstance,—as for instance an empire, rules of an art, a local usage, a religious rite,—to heap itself on that ridge and to solidify and hem in the life. But if the soul is quick and strong it bursts over that boundary on all sides and expands another orbit on the great deep, which also runs up into a high wave, with attempt again to stop and to bind. But the heart refuses to be imprisoned; in its first and narrowest pulses, it already tends outward with a vast force and to immense and innumerable expansions.

The key to every man is his thought. However strong and defiant he may look, he is guided by an idea. That idea determines how he organizes all the facts of his life. He can only be changed by being shown a new idea that overrules his own. Human life is a self-expanding circle. It begins as an almost invisible ring and spreads outward in every direction into new and larger circles, without end. How far this series of circles, wheel beyond wheel, will extend depends on the strength or truth of the individual soul. Every thought forms itself into a circular wave of circumstances. These may be an empire, the rules of an art, a local custom, or a religious rite. Once formed, the thought tends to settle into that ridge, harden, and confine life. But if the soul is lively and strong, it bursts through that boundary in every direction. It expands into another orbit on the great deep. That orbit, too, rises into a high wave, again trying to stop and confine life. But the heart refuses to be imprisoned. Even in its first and narrowest pulses, it is already moving outward with vast force toward immense and countless expansions.

Every ultimate fact is only the first of a new series. Every general law only a particular fact of some more general law presently to disclose itself. There is no outside, no inclosing wall, no circumference to us. The man finishes his story,—how good! how final! how it puts a new face on all things! He fills the sky. Lo! on the other side rises also a man and draws a circle around the circle we had just pronounced the outline of the sphere. Then already is our first speaker not man, but only a first speaker. His only redress is forthwith to draw a circle outside of his antagonist. And so men do by themselves. The result of to-day, which haunts the mind and cannot be escaped, will presently be abridged into a word, and the principle that seemed to explain nature will itself be included as one example of a bolder generalization. In the thought of to-morrow there is a power to upheave all thy creed, all the creeds, all the literatures of the nations, and marshal thee to a heaven which no epic dream has yet depicted. Every man is not so much a workman in the world as he is a suggestion of that he should be. Men walk as prophecies of the next age.

Every final fact is only the first in a new series. Every general law is only one fact within a more general law that will soon reveal itself. There is no outside, no enclosing wall, no boundary around us. A man finishes his story. How good it is! How final it seems! How it changes the face of everything! He fills the sky. Look! Another man rises on the other side. He draws a circle around the circle we had just declared to be the boundary of the whole sphere. Already, our first speaker is no longer the man, but merely the first speaker. His only answer is to draw a circle outside his opponent’s. People do the same with their own ideas. Today’s conclusion haunts the mind and cannot be escaped. Soon, it will be shortened to a single word. The principle that seemed to explain nature will itself become one example of a bolder generalization. Tomorrow’s thought has the power to overturn your entire creed, all creeds, and all the literature of nations. It can lead you to a heaven that no epic dream has yet portrayed. Each person is less a worker in the world than a suggestion of what he should be. People walk as prophecies of the next age.

Step by step we scale this mysterious ladder: the steps are actions; the new prospect is power. Every several result is threatened and judged by that which follows. Every one seems to be contradicted by the new; it is only limited by the new. The new statement is always hated by the old, and, to those dwelling in the old, comes like an abyss of scepticism. But the eye soon gets wonted to it, for the eye and it are effects of one cause; then its innocency and benefit appear, and presently, all its energy spent, it pales and dwindles before the revelation of the new hour.

Step by step, we climb this mysterious ladder. The steps are actions, and the new view is power. Each result is threatened and judged by what follows. Each seems to be contradicted by the new result, but it is only limited by it. The old always hates the new statement. To those who live by the old, the new statement appears as an abyss of skepticism. But the eye soon grows accustomed to it, because the eye and the new statement are effects of one cause. Then the statement’s innocence and benefit become clear. Soon, once all its energy is spent, it fades and dwindles before the revelation of the new hour.

Fear not the new generalization. Does the fact look crass and material, threatening to degrade thy theory of spirit? Resist it not; it goes to refine and raise thy theory of matter just as much.

Do not fear a new generalization. Does the fact seem crude and material, threatening to lower your theory of spirit? Do not resist it. It will refine and elevate your theory of matter just as much.

There are no fixtures to men, if we appeal to consciousness. Every man supposes himself not to be fully understood; and if there is any truth in him, if he rests at last on the divine soul, I see not how it can be otherwise. The last chamber, the last closet, he must feel was never opened; there is always a residuum unknown, unanalyzable. That is, every man believes that he has a greater possibility.

If we look within ourselves, we see that no one is fixed or fully defined. Every person believes that others do not fully understand him. If there is any truth in him, if he ultimately rests on the divine soul, I cannot see how it could be otherwise. He must feel that the innermost chamber, the last closet, has never been opened. Something always remains unknown and beyond analysis. In other words, every person believes that he has greater possibilities.

Our moods do not believe in each other. To-day I am full of thoughts and can write what I please. I see no reason why I should not have the same thought, the same power of expression, to-morrow. What I write, whilst I write it, seems the most natural thing in the world; but yesterday I saw a dreary vacuity in this direction in which now I see so much; and a month hence, I doubt not, I shall wonder who he was that wrote so many continuous pages. Alas for this infirm faith, this will not strenuous, this vast ebb of a vast flow! I am God in nature; I am a weed by the wall.

Our moods do not believe in each other. Today I am full of thoughts and can write whatever I please. I see no reason why I should not have the same thoughts and power of expression tomorrow. As I write, what I write seems like the most natural thing in the world. But yesterday, where I now see so much, I saw only a dreary emptiness. And a month from now, I have no doubt I will wonder who wrote so many pages in a row. Alas for this weak faith, this feeble will, this vast ebb after such a vast flow! I am God in nature. I am a weed by the wall.

The continual effort to raise himself above himself, to work a pitch above his last height, betrays itself in a man’s relations. We thirst for approbation, yet cannot forgive the approver. The sweet of nature is love; yet, if I have a friend I am tormented by my imperfections. The love of me accuses the other party. If he were high enough to slight me, then could I love him, and rise by my affection to new heights. A man’s growth is seen in the successive choirs of his friends. For every friend whom he loses for truth, he gains a better. I thought as I walked in the woods and mused on my friends, why should I play with them this game of idolatry? I know and see too well, when not voluntarily blind, the speedy limits of persons called high and worthy. Rich, noble and great they are by the liberality of our speech, but truth is sad. O blessed Spirit, whom I forsake for these, they are not thou! Every personal consideration that we allow costs us heavenly state. We sell the thrones of angels for a short and turbulent pleasure.

A person’s constant effort to rise above himself, to reach higher than he did before, shows itself in his relationships. We thirst for approval, yet we cannot forgive the person who approves of us. Love is the sweetness of nature. Yet, if I have a friend, my imperfections torment me. My friend’s love for me counts against him. If he were great enough to look down on me, I could love him. My love would lift me to new heights. A person’s growth can be seen in the successive circles of his friends. For every friend he loses for the sake of truth, he gains a better one. As I walked in the woods and thought about my friends, I wondered why I should play this game of idolizing them. Unless I choose to be blind, I know and see too well how soon the limits of supposedly great and worthy people appear. We generously call them rich, noble, and great, but the truth is sad. O blessed Spirit, whom I abandon for these people, they are not you! Every personal consideration we allow costs us a heavenly state. We sell the thrones of angels for a brief and turbulent pleasure.

How often must we learn this lesson? Men cease to interest us when we find their limitations. The only sin is limitation. As soon as you once come up with a man’s limitations, it is all over with him. Has he talents? has he enterprise? has he knowledge? It boots not. Infinitely alluring and attractive was he to you yesterday, a great hope, a sea to swim in; now, you have found his shores, found it a pond, and you care not if you never see it again.

How often must we learn this lesson? Men stop interesting us when we discover their limitations. The only sin is limitation. As soon as you discover a man’s limitations, it is all over for him. Does he have talents? Is he enterprising? Does he have knowledge? It doesn’t matter. Yesterday he was endlessly alluring and attractive to you, a great hope, a sea to swim in. Now you have found his shores and discovered that he is a pond. You don’t care if you never see him again.

Each new step we take in thought reconciles twenty seemingly discordant facts, as expressions of one law. Aristotle and Plato are reckoned the respective heads of two schools. A wise man will see that Aristotle platonizes. By going one step farther back in thought, discordant opinions are reconciled by being seen to be two extremes of one principle, and we can never go so far back as to preclude a still higher vision.

Each new step in our thinking reconciles twenty seemingly conflicting facts by showing them to be expressions of one law. Aristotle and Plato are considered the respective founders of two schools of thought. A wise person will see that Aristotle thinks like Plato. If we take one step further back in thought, we can reconcile opposing opinions by seeing them as two extremes of one principle. And we can never go so far back that a still higher view is impossible.

Beware when the great God lets loose a thinker on this planet. Then all things are at risk. It is as when a conflagration has broken out in a great city, and no man knows what is safe, or where it will end. There is not a piece of science but its flank may be turned to-morrow; there is not any literary reputation, not the so-called eternal names of fame, that may not be revised and condemned. The very hopes of man, the thoughts of his heart, the religion of nations, the manners and morals of mankind are all at the mercy of a new generalization. Generalization is always a new influx of the divinity into the mind. Hence the thrill that attends it.

Beware when the great God sets a thinker loose on this planet. Then everything is at risk. It is like a great fire breaking out in a city. No one knows what is safe or where the fire will end. Every field of science may be overturned tomorrow. Every literary reputation, even those supposedly eternal names of fame, may be reassessed and condemned. The very hopes of humanity, the thoughts in people’s hearts, the religion of nations, and the customs and morals of humankind are all at the mercy of a new general idea. Such a general idea is always a new flow of the divine into the mind. That is why it brings a thrill.

Valor consists in the power of self-recovery, so that a man cannot have his flank turned, cannot be out-generalled, but put him where you will, he stands. This can only be by his preferring truth to his past apprehension of truth, and his alert acceptance of it from whatever quarter; the intrepid conviction that his laws, his relations to society, his Christianity, his world, may at any time be superseded and decease.

Courage lies in the power to recover yourself. A courageous man cannot be caught off guard or outmaneuvered. Put him wherever you will, and he stands firm. He can do this only by valuing truth above his past understanding of it and readily accepting it from any source. He must have the fearless conviction that his laws, his relationships with society, his Christianity, and his world may at any time be replaced and pass away.

There are degrees in idealism. We learn first to play with it academically, as the magnet was once a toy. Then we see in the heyday of youth and poetry that it may be true, that it is true in gleams and fragments. Then its countenance waxes stern and grand, and we see that it must be true. It now shows itself ethical and practical. We learn that God is; that he is in me; and that all things are shadows of him. The idealism of Berkeley is only a crude statement of the idealism of Jesus, and that again is a crude statement of the fact that all nature is the rapid efflux of goodness executing and organizing itself. Much more obviously is history and the state of the world at any one time directly dependent on the intellectual classification then existing in the minds of men. The things which are dear to men at this hour are so on account of the ideas which have emerged on their mental horizon, and which cause the present order of things, as a tree bears its apples. A new degree of culture would instantly revolutionize the entire system of human pursuits.

There are degrees of idealism. At first, we play with idealism as an academic idea, just as the magnet was once a toy. Then, in the height of youth and poetry, we see that idealism may be true. We see that it is true in flashes and fragments. Then idealism takes on a stern and grand appearance, and we see that it must be true. It now reveals itself as ethical and practical. We learn that God exists, that he is in me, and that all things are shadows of him. Berkeley’s idealism is only a crude statement of Jesus’s idealism. And Jesus’s idealism is itself a crude statement of a fact. That fact is that all nature flows swiftly from goodness as it acts and gives itself form. Even more obviously, history and the state of the world at any given time depend directly on how people classify things in their minds. What people hold dear at any moment depends on the ideas that have appeared on their mental horizon. These ideas produce the present order of things, just as a tree bears its apples. A new level of culture would instantly revolutionize the whole system of human pursuits.

Conversation is a game of circles. In conversation we pluck up the termini which bound the common of silence on every side. The parties are not to be judged by the spirit they partake and even express under this Pentecost. To-morrow they will have receded from this high-water mark. To-morrow you shall find them stooping under the old pack-saddles. Yet let us enjoy the cloven flame whilst it glows on our walls. When each new speaker strikes a new light, emancipates us from the oppression of the last speaker, to oppress us with the greatness and exclusiveness of his own thought, then yields us to another redeemer, we seem to recover our rights, to become men. O, what truths profound and executable only in ages and orbs, are supposed in the announcement of every truth! In common hours, society sits cold and statuesque. We all stand waiting, empty,—knowing, possibly, that we can be full, surrounded by mighty symbols which are not symbols to us, but prose and trivial toys. Then cometh the god and converts the statues into fiery men, and by a flash of his eye burns up the veil which shrouded all things, and the meaning of the very furniture, of cup and saucer, of chair and clock and tester, is manifest. The facts which loomed so large in the fogs of yesterday,—property, climate, breeding, personal beauty and the like, have strangely changed their proportions. All that we reckoned settled shakes and rattles; and literatures, cities, climates, religions, leave their foundations and dance before our eyes. And yet here again see the swift circumspection! Good as is discourse, silence is better, and shames it. The length of the discourse indicates the distance of thought betwixt the speaker and the hearer. If they were at a perfect understanding in any part, no words would be necessary thereon. If at one in all parts, no words would be suffered.

Conversation is a game of circles. As we talk, we pull up the boundary markers that surround the common ground of silence. We should not judge the speakers by the spirit they share and even express during this Pentecost. Tomorrow they will have fallen back from this high point. Tomorrow you will find them bent under their old burdens. Yet let us enjoy the divided flame while it glows on our walls. Each new speaker sheds a new light, freeing us from the weight of the last speaker’s thought. But then the new speaker weighs us down with the greatness and exclusiveness of his own thought. When he in turn gives way to another liberator, we seem to recover our rights and become human beings. Oh, what profound truths are implied in the statement of every truth, truths that can be put into effect only over ages and across worlds! In ordinary hours, society sits cold and still as a statue. We all stand waiting, empty, though we may know that we can be full. Mighty symbols surround us, but to us they are not symbols. They are plain facts and trivial toys. Then the god comes and turns the statues into fiery human beings. With a flash of his eye, he burns away the veil that covered everything. The meaning of the very furniture becomes clear, the cup and saucer, the chair and clock and bed canopy. Facts that loomed so large in yesterday’s fog have strangely changed in proportion. These include property, climate, breeding, personal beauty, and the like. Everything we thought settled shakes and rattles. Literatures, cities, climates, and religions leave their foundations and dance before our eyes. And yet here again, see how quickly we must reconsider! As good as conversation is, silence is better and puts conversation to shame. The length of a conversation shows the distance between the thoughts of the speaker and the listener. If they understood each other perfectly on any point, no words would be needed about it. If they were in complete agreement on every point, no words would be permitted.

Literature is a point outside of our hodiernal circle through which a new one may be described. The use of literature is to afford us a platform whence we may command a view of our present life, a purchase by which we may move it. We fill ourselves with ancient learning, install ourselves the best we can in Greek, in Punic, in Roman houses, only that we may wiselier see French, English and American houses and modes of living. In like manner we see literature best from the midst of wild nature, or from the din of affairs, or from a high religion. The field cannot be well seen from within the field. The astronomer must have his diameter of the earth’s orbit as a base to find the parallax of any star.

Literature is a point outside the circle of our daily lives from which we may draw a new circle. Literature gives us a platform from which to see our present lives and leverage to change them. We fill ourselves with ancient learning and imagine ourselves as best we can in Greek, Punic, and Roman homes. We do this only so that we may better understand French, English, and American homes and ways of life. In the same way, we see literature best from the midst of wild nature, from the noise of daily affairs, or from the perspective of a lofty religion. We cannot see a field well from within it. An astronomer needs the diameter of the earth’s orbit as a baseline to find the parallax of any star.

Therefore we value the poet. All the argument and all the wisdom is not in the encyclopaedia, or the treatise on metaphysics, or the Body of Divinity, but in the sonnet or the play. In my daily work I incline to repeat my old steps, and do not believe in remedial force, in the power of change and reform. But some Petrarch or Ariosto, filled with the new wine of his imagination, writes me an ode or a brisk romance, full of daring thought and action. He smites and arouses me with his shrill tones, breaks up my whole chain of habits, and I open my eye on my own possibilities. He claps wings to the sides of all the solid old lumber of the world, and I am capable once more of choosing a straight path in theory and practice.

That is why we value the poet. All the reasoning and wisdom is not in the encyclopedia, the treatise on metaphysics, or the Body of Divinity. It is in the sonnet or the play. In my daily work, I tend to follow my old routines. I do not believe in the power to heal, change, or reform. But then a Petrarch or Ariosto writes me an ode or a lively romance. He is filled with the new wine of his imagination, and his work is full of daring thought and action. His piercing tones strike and awaken me. They break my whole chain of habits, and I see my own possibilities. He puts wings on all the solid old lumber of the world. Once more, I can choose a straight path in thought and action.

We have the same need to command a view of the religion of the world. We can never see Christianity from the catechism:—from the pastures, from a boat in the pond, from amidst the songs of wood-birds we possibly may. Cleansed by the elemental light and wind, steeped in the sea of beautiful forms which the field offers us, we may chance to cast a right glance back upon biography. Christianity is rightly dear to the best of mankind; yet was there never a young philosopher whose breeding had fallen into the Christian church by whom that brave text of Paul’s was not specially prized:—“Then shall also the Son be subject unto Him who put all things under him, that God may be all in all.” Let the claims and virtues of persons be never so great and welcome, the instinct of man presses eagerly onward to the impersonal and illimitable, and gladly arms itself against the dogmatism of bigots with this generous word out of the book itself.

We have the same need to gain a broad view of the world's religion. We can never see Christianity clearly through the catechism. But perhaps we can see it from the pastures, from a boat on a pond, or amid the songs of woodland birds. Cleansed by natural light and wind, and immersed in the field's sea of beautiful forms, we may look back at biography with clearer eyes. Christianity is rightly dear to the best of humanity. Yet every young philosopher raised in the Christian church has especially treasured Paul's bold words: “Then shall also the Son be subject unto Him who put all things under him, that God may be all in all.” However great and welcome the claims and virtues of individuals may be, human instinct presses eagerly toward the impersonal and limitless. It gladly uses these generous words from the book itself to defend against the dogmatism of bigots.

The natural world may be conceived of as a system of concentric circles, and we now and then detect in nature slight dislocations which apprise us that this surface on which we now stand is not fixed, but sliding. These manifold tenacious qualities, this chemistry and vegetation, these metals and animals, which seem to stand there for their own sake, are means and methods only,—are words of God, and as fugitive as other words. Has the naturalist or chemist learned his craft, who has explored the gravity of atoms and the elective affinities, who has not yet discerned the deeper law whereof this is only a partial or approximate statement, namely that like draws to like, and that the goods which belong to you gravitate to you and need not be pursued with pains and cost? Yet is that statement approximate also, and not final. Omnipresence is a higher fact. Not through subtle subterranean channels need friend and fact be drawn to their counterpart, but, rightly considered, these things proceed from the eternal generation of the soul. Cause and effect are two sides of one fact.

The natural world may be imagined as a system of concentric circles. Now and then, we notice slight shifts in nature. They show us that the surface we stand on is not fixed, but moving. These many persistent qualities, this chemistry and vegetation, these metals and animals seem to exist for their own sake. Yet they are only means and methods, words of God, and as fleeting as other words. Has a naturalist or chemist really learned the craft by studying the gravity of atoms and their chemical affinities? Not if the scientist has yet to see the deeper law that these observations only partly or approximately express. The law is that like attracts like, and the goods that belong to you are drawn to you. You need not pursue them with effort and expense. Yet that statement, too, is approximate, not final. Omnipresence is a higher truth. Friends and facts need not be drawn to their counterparts through subtle underground channels. Properly understood, they arise from the soul's eternal generation. Cause and effect are two sides of one fact.

The same law of eternal procession ranges all that we call the virtues, and extinguishes each in the light of a better. The great man will not be prudent in the popular sense; all his prudence will be so much deduction from his grandeur. But it behooves each to see, when he sacrifices prudence, to what god he devotes it; if to ease and pleasure, he had better be prudent still; if to a great trust, he can well spare his mule and panniers who has a winged chariot instead. Geoffrey draws on his boots to go through the woods, that his feet may be safer from the bite of snakes; Aaron never thinks of such a peril. In many years neither is harmed by such an accident. Yet it seems to me that with every precaution you take against such an evil you put yourself into the power of the evil. I suppose that the highest prudence is the lowest prudence. Is this too sudden a rushing from the centre to the verge of our orbit? Think how many times we shall fall back into pitiful calculations before we take up our rest in the great sentiment, or make the verge of to-day the new centre. Besides, your bravest sentiment is familiar to the humblest men. The poor and the low have their way of expressing the last facts of philosophy as well as you. “Blessed be nothing” and “The worse things are, the better they are” are proverbs which express the transcendentalism of common life.

The same law of eternal progression governs all that we call virtues. Each virtue fades in the light of a better one. A great man will not be prudent in the usual sense. All his prudence will take away from his greatness. But when we sacrifice prudence, we must each ask what god we are offering it to. If we sacrifice prudence for comfort and pleasure, we would be better off remaining prudent. But if we sacrifice it for a great responsibility, we can easily give up our mule and its packs when we have a winged chariot instead. Geoffrey puts on his boots to walk through the woods, so his feet will be safer from snakebites. Aaron never thinks about such a danger. Over many years, neither is harmed by a snakebite. Yet it seems to me that every precaution you take against such an evil puts you in its power. I suppose that the highest prudence is the lowest prudence. Is this too sudden a leap from the center to the edge of our orbit? Think how often we will fall back into pitiful calculations before we settle into that great conviction. Or before we make today's outer edge our new center. Besides, even the humblest people know your bravest conviction. The poor and lowly have their own way of expressing the ultimate truths of philosophy, just as you do. “Blessed be nothing” and “The worse things are, the better they are” are proverbs that express the transcendentalism of everyday life.

One man’s justice is another’s injustice; one man’s beauty another’s ugliness; one man’s wisdom another’s folly; as one beholds the same objects from a higher point. One man thinks justice consists in paying debts, and has no measure in his abhorrence of another who is very remiss in this duty and makes the creditor wait tediously. But that second man has his own way of looking at things; asks himself Which debt must I pay first, the debt to the rich, or the debt to the poor? the debt of money, or the debt of thought to mankind, of genius to nature? For you, O broker, there is no other principle but arithmetic. For me, commerce is of trivial import; love, faith, truth of character, the aspiration of man, these are sacred; nor can I detach one duty, like you, from all other duties, and concentrate my forces mechanically on the payment of moneys. Let me live onward; you shall find that, though slower, the progress of my character will liquidate all these debts without injustice to higher claims. If a man should dedicate himself to the payment of notes, would not this be injustice? Does he owe no debt but money? And are all claims on him to be postponed to a landlord’s or a banker’s?

One man’s justice is another man’s injustice. One man’s beauty is another man’s ugliness, and one man’s wisdom is another man’s folly. One sees the same things from a higher point of view. One man thinks justice means paying debts. His hatred knows no bounds for another man who neglects this duty and makes his creditor wait endlessly. But the second man has his own way of looking at things. He asks himself: Which debt must I pay first, the debt to the rich or the debt to the poor? The debt of money, or the debt of thought to mankind, of genius to nature? For you, broker, there is no principle but arithmetic. For me, commerce matters little. Love, faith, truth of character, and human aspiration are sacred. Unlike you, I cannot separate one duty from all the others and mechanically devote myself to paying money. Let me go on living. You will find that, though slower, the growth of my character will settle all these debts without neglecting higher claims. If a man devoted himself to paying promissory notes, would that not be unjust? Does he owe nothing but money? Must every other claim on him come after a landlord’s or a banker’s?

There is no virtue which is final; all are initial. The virtues of society are vices of the saint. The terror of reform is the discovery that we must cast away our virtues, or what we have always esteemed such, into the same pit that has consumed our grosser vices:—

No virtue is final. All virtues are beginnings. What society calls virtues are vices to a saint. The frightening thing about reform is discovering that we must throw away our virtues, or what we have always considered virtues. We must throw them into the same pit that has swallowed up our coarser vices:

It is the highest power of divine moments that they abolish our contritions also. I accuse myself of sloth and unprofitableness day by day; but when these waves of God flow into me I no longer reckon lost time. I no longer poorly compute my possible achievement by what remains to me of the month or the year; for these moments confer a sort of omnipresence and omnipotence which asks nothing of duration, but sees that the energy of the mind is commensurate with the work to be done, without time.

The greatest power of divine moments is that they also erase our regrets. Day after day, I accuse myself of being lazy and accomplishing nothing. But when these waves of God flow into me, I no longer count the time I have lost. I no longer try to measure what I might achieve by the days left in the month or year. For these moments give me a kind of presence everywhere and power over everything that needs no time. In these moments, I see that the mind’s energy is equal to the work to be done, without time.

And thus, O circular philosopher, I hear some reader exclaim, you have arrived at a fine Pyrrhonism, at an equivalence and indifferency of all actions, and would fain teach us that if we are true, forsooth, our crimes may be lively stones out of which we shall construct the temple of the true God!

And so, O circular philosopher, I hear a reader exclaim, you have arrived at a fine Pyrrhonism! You treat all actions as equivalent and equally unimportant. And you would have us believe that, indeed, if we are true, our crimes may be living stones. From these stones we shall build the temple of the true God!

I am not careful to justify myself. I own I am gladdened by seeing the predominance of the saccharine principle throughout vegetable nature, and not less by beholding in morals that unrestrained inundation of the principle of good into every chink and hole that selfishness has left open, yea into selfishness and sin itself; so that no evil is pure, nor hell itself without its extreme satisfactions. But lest I should mislead any when I have my own head and obey my whims, let me remind the reader that I am only an experimenter. Do not set the least value on what I do, or the least discredit on what I do not, as if I pretended to settle any thing as true or false. I unsettle all things. No facts are to me sacred; none are profane; I simply experiment, an endless seeker with no Past at my back.

I do not feel the need to justify myself. I admit that I am glad to see how much sweetness fills the plant world. I am equally glad to see goodness flood without restraint into every gap selfishness has left open. Goodness even enters selfishness and sin themselves. So no evil is entirely evil, and even hell has its great satisfactions. But I follow my own mind and obey my whims, and I do not want to mislead anyone. So let me remind the reader that I am only an experimenter. Do not give any value to what I do, or discredit what I do not do. I do not claim to settle anything as true or false. I unsettle everything. No facts are sacred to me, and none are profane. I simply experiment, an endless seeker with no Past behind me.

Yet this incessant movement and progression which all things partake could never become sensible to us but by contrast to some principle of fixture or stability in the soul. Whilst the eternal generation of circles proceeds, the eternal generator abides. That central life is somewhat superior to creation, superior to knowledge and thought, and contains all its circles. For ever it labors to create a life and thought as Large and excellent as itself, but in vain, for that which is made instructs how to make a better.

Yet we could perceive the constant movement and progress of all things only by contrasting them with some principle of stability in the soul. As circles are endlessly created, the eternal creator remains. That central life is somewhat greater than creation, knowledge, and thought, and contains all its circles. It works forever to create a life and thought as great and excellent as itself, but in vain. For whatever is created shows how to create something better.

Thus there is no sleep, no pause, no preservation, but all things renew, germinate and spring. Why should we import rags and relics into the new hour? Nature abhors the old, and old age seems the only disease; all others run into this one. We call it by many names,—fever, intemperance, insanity, stupidity and crime; they are all forms of old age; they are rest, conservatism, appropriation, inertia; not newness, not the way onward. We grizzle every day. I see no need of it. Whilst we converse with what is above us, we do not grow old, but grow young. Infancy, youth, receptive, aspiring, with religious eye looking upward, counts itself nothing and abandons itself to the instruction flowing from all sides. But the man and woman of seventy assume to know all, they have outlived their hope, they renounce aspiration, accept the actual for the necessary and talk down to the young. Let them, then, become organs of the Holy Ghost; let them be lovers; let them behold truth; and their eyes are uplifted, their wrinkles smoothed, they are perfumed again with hope and power. This old age ought not to creep on a human mind. In nature every moment is new; the past is always swallowed and forgotten; the coming only is sacred. Nothing is secure but life, transition, the energizing spirit. No love can be bound by oath or covenant to secure it against a higher love. No truth so sublime but it may be trivial to-morrow in the light of new thoughts. People wish to be settled; only as far as they are unsettled is there any hope for them.

There is no sleep, no pause, no keeping things as they are. Everything renews itself, sprouts, and grows. Why bring rags and relics into the new hour? Nature hates what is old. Old age seems to be the only disease, and all other diseases lead to it. We call it by many names: fever, lack of self-control, insanity, stupidity, and crime. All are forms of old age. They are rest, resistance to change, taking things for oneself, and inertia. They are not newness or the way forward. We grow gray every day. I see no need for it. As long as we engage with what is above us, we do not grow old. We grow young. In infancy and youth, we are receptive and eager to grow. We look upward with reverence, count ourselves as nothing, and give ourselves over to the instruction coming from all sides. But men and women of seventy assume they know everything. They have outlived their hope, given up aspiration, and accepted what is as what must be. They talk down to the young. So let them become instruments of the Holy Ghost. Let them be lovers. Let them see truth. Then their eyes will look upward, their wrinkles will smooth out, and hope and power will surround them again. This old age should not creep into the human mind. In nature, every moment is new. The past is always swallowed up and forgotten. Only what is coming is sacred. Nothing is secure except life, change, and the spirit that gives energy. No love can be bound by an oath or promise to protect it against a higher love. No truth is so sublime that it may not seem trivial tomorrow in the light of new thoughts. People want to be settled. But there is hope for them only to the extent that they are unsettled.

Life is a series of surprises. We do not guess to-day the mood, the pleasure, the power of to-morrow, when we are building up our being. Of lower states, of acts of routine and sense, we can tell somewhat; but the masterpieces of God, the total growths and universal movements of the soul, he hideth; they are incalculable. I can know that truth is divine and helpful; but how it shall help me I can have no guess, for so to be is the sole inlet of so to know. The new position of the advancing man has all the powers of the old, yet has them all new. It carries in its bosom all the energies of the past, yet is itself an exhalation of the morning. I cast away in this new moment all my once hoarded knowledge, as vacant and vain. Now, for the first time seem I to know any thing rightly. The simplest words,—we do not know what they mean except when we love and aspire.

Life is a series of surprises. As we build our being, we cannot guess today what tomorrow’s mood, pleasure, or power will be. We can predict something about lower states, routine actions, and the life of the senses. But God hides his masterpieces from us: the soul’s growth as a whole and its universal movements. These cannot be predicted. I can know that truth is divine and helpful. But I cannot guess how it will help me, because only by being so can we know so. As a person advances, each new position has all the powers of the old one, yet all are new. It carries within it all the energies of the past, yet is itself a breath of morning. In this new moment, I cast away all the knowledge I once treasured as empty and useless. Now, for the first time, I seem to know anything rightly. We do not know what even the simplest words mean except when we love and aspire.

The difference between talents and character is adroitness to keep the old and trodden round, and power and courage to make a new road to new and better goals. Character makes an overpowering present; a cheerful, determined hour, which fortifies all the company by making them see that much is possible and excellent that was not thought of. Character dulls the impression of particular events. When we see the conqueror we do not think much of any one battle or success. We see that we had exaggerated the difficulty. It was easy to him. The great man is not convulsible or tormentable; events pass over him without much impression. People say sometimes, ‘See what I have overcome; see how cheerful I am; see how completely I have triumphed over these black events.’ Not if they still remind me of the black event. True conquest is the causing the calamity to fade and disappear as an early cloud of insignificant result in a history so large and advancing.

Talent is the skill to follow the old, well-worn path. Character is the power and courage to make a new road toward new and better goals. Character creates an overwhelming sense of the present: a cheerful, determined hour that strengthens everyone there. It shows them that much is possible and excellent that they had not imagined. Character makes individual events seem less important. When we see the conqueror, we do not think much about any single battle or victory. We see that we had exaggerated the difficulty. It was easy for him. A great person cannot be shaken or tormented. Events pass over him without leaving much of a mark. People sometimes say, ‘See what I have overcome. See how cheerful I am. See how completely I have triumphed over these dark events.’ But they have not truly triumphed if they still remind me of the dark event. True conquest makes a calamity fade and disappear. It becomes like an early cloud, of little consequence in a life so expansive and ever moving forward.

The one thing which we seek with insatiable desire is to forget ourselves, to be surprised out of our propriety, to lose our sempiternal memory and to do something without knowing how or why; in short to draw a new circle. Nothing great was ever achieved without enthusiasm. The way of life is wonderful; it is by abandonment. The great moments of history are the facilities of performance through the strength of ideas, as the works of genius and religion. “A man,” said Oliver Cromwell, “never rises so high as when he knows not whither he is going.” Dreams and drunkenness, the use of opium and alcohol are the semblance and counterfeit of this oracular genius, and hence their dangerous attraction for men. For the like reason they ask the aid of wild passions, as in gaming and war, to ape in some manner these flames and generosities of the heart.

The one thing we desire endlessly is to forget ourselves, to be surprised out of our usual composure. We want to forget our constant awareness of ourselves and do something without knowing how or why. In short, we want to draw a new circle. Nothing great was ever achieved without enthusiasm. The way of life is wonderful. It lies in letting go. The great moments of history are those when the power of ideas makes achievement easy, as in works of genius and religion. “A man,” said Oliver Cromwell, “never rises so high as when he does not know where he is going.” Dreams, drunkenness, and the use of opium and alcohol imitate and counterfeit this inspired genius. That is why they are dangerously attractive to people. For the same reason, people turn to wild passions, as in gambling and war. They seek to imitate, in some way, these flames and generous impulses of the heart.