Intellect

Every substance is negatively electric to that which stands above it in the chemical tables, positively to that which stands below it. Water dissolves wood and iron and salt; air dissolves water; electric fire dissolves air, but the intellect dissolves fire, gravity, laws, method, and the subtlest unnamed relations of nature in its resistless menstruum. Intellect lies behind genius, which is intellect constructive. Intellect is the simple power anterior to all action or construction. Gladly would I unfold in calm degrees a natural history of the intellect, but what man has yet been able to mark the steps and boundaries of that transparent essence? The first questions are always to be asked, and the wisest doctor is gravelled by the inquisitiveness of a child. How can we speak of the action of the mind under any divisions, as of its knowledge, of its ethics, of its works, and so forth, since it melts will into perception, knowledge into act? Each becomes the other. Itself alone is. Its vision is not like the vision of the eye, but is union with the things known.

Every substance is negatively electric in relation to substances above it in the chemical tables, and positively electric in relation to those below it. Water dissolves wood, iron, and salt. Air dissolves water, and electric fire dissolves air. But the intellect dissolves fire, gravity, laws, method, and nature’s most subtle, unnamed relationships in its irresistible solvent. Intellect lies behind genius, which is intellect at work creating. Intellect itself is the simple power that comes before all action or creation. I would gladly describe the natural history of the intellect, step by step. But who has ever been able to trace the stages and boundaries of that transparent essence? The most basic questions always remain to be asked. Even the wisest scholar is stumped by a child’s curiosity. How can we divide the mind’s activity into knowledge, ethics, works, and so on? The mind blends will into perception and knowledge into action. Each becomes the other. The mind alone exists. Its vision is not like the eye’s vision. It becomes one with the things it knows.

Intellect and intellection signify to the common ear consideration of abstract truth. The considerations of time and place, of you and me, of profit and hurt tyrannize over most men’s minds. Intellect separates the fact considered, from you, from all local and personal reference, and discerns it as if it existed for its own sake. Heraclitus looked upon the affections as dense and colored mists. In the fog of good and evil affections it is hard for man to walk forward in a straight line. Intellect is void of affection and sees an object as it stands in the light of science, cool and disengaged. The intellect goes out of the individual, floats over its own personality, and regards it as a fact, and not as I and mine. He who is immersed in what concerns person or place cannot see the problem of existence. This the intellect always ponders. Nature shows all things formed and bound. The intellect pierces the form, overleaps the wall, detects intrinsic likeness between remote things and reduces all things into a few principles.

To most people, intellect and thinking mean considering abstract truth. Thoughts of time and place, of you and me, of gain and harm dominate most people’s minds. The intellect separates the fact under consideration from you and from all ties to place or person. It sees the fact as if it existed for its own sake. Heraclitus saw emotions as thick, colored mists. In the fog of good and bad emotions, it is hard for a person to walk straight ahead. The intellect is free of emotion. It sees an object in the light of science, coolly and without personal involvement. The intellect moves beyond the individual and rises above its own personality. It regards that personality as a fact, not as I or mine. Anyone absorbed in personal or local concerns cannot see the problem of existence. The intellect always considers that problem. Nature shows all things as having form and limits. The intellect pierces the form and leaps over the wall. It discovers essential similarities between things far apart and reduces all things to a few principles.

The making a fact the subject of thought raises it. All that mass of mental and moral phenomena which we do not make objects of voluntary thought, come within the power of fortune; they constitute the circumstance of daily life; they are subject to change, to fear, and hope. Every man beholds his human condition with a degree of melancholy. As a ship aground is battered by the waves, so man, imprisoned in mortal life, lies open to the mercy of coming events. But a truth, separated by the intellect, is no longer a subject of destiny. We behold it as a god upraised above care and fear. And so any fact in our life, or any record of our fancies or reflections, disentangled from the web of our unconsciousness, becomes an object impersonal and immortal. It is the past restored, but embalmed. A better art than that of Egypt has taken fear and corruption out of it. It is eviscerated of care. It is offered for science. What is addressed to us for contemplation does not threaten us but makes us intellectual beings.

Making a fact the subject of thought elevates it. All the mental and moral experiences we do not choose to think about fall under the power of fortune. They make up the circumstances of daily life and are subject to change, fear, and hope. Every person looks at the human condition with some sadness. A ship aground is battered by the waves. In the same way, a person imprisoned in mortal life lies at the mercy of coming events. But a truth set apart by the intellect is no longer subject to fate. We see it as a god, raised above care and fear. So, too, any fact in our lives, or any record of our thoughts or imaginings, can be untangled from the web of our unconsciousness. It then becomes something impersonal and immortal. It is the past restored, but embalmed. An art better than Egypt’s has removed fear and decay from it. All care has been taken out of it. It is offered for study. Whatever is presented to us for contemplation does not threaten us. Instead, it makes us intellectual beings.

The growth of the intellect is spontaneous in every expansion. The mind that grows could not predict the times, the means, the mode of that spontaneity. God enters by a private door into every individual. Long prior to the age of reflection is the thinking of the mind. Out of darkness it came insensibly into the marvellous light of to-day. In the period of infancy it accepted and disposed of all impressions from the surrounding creation after its own way. Whatever any mind doth or saith is after a law; and this native law remains over it after it has come to reflection or conscious thought. In the most worn, pedantic, introverted self-tormenter’s life, the greatest part is incalculable by him, unforeseen, unimaginable, and must be, until he can take himself up by his own ears. What am I? What has my will done to make me that I am? Nothing. I have been floated into this thought, this hour, this connection of events, by secret currents of might and mind, and my ingenuity and wilfulness have not thwarted, have not aided to an appreciable degree.

The intellect grows spontaneously with every expansion. A growing mind cannot predict when, how, or by what means this spontaneous growth will happen. God enters each person through a private door. The mind thinks long before it becomes capable of reflection. It came out of darkness, without noticing the change, into the marvelous light of today. In infancy, it received and dealt with every impression from the surrounding world in its own way. Whatever a mind does or says follows a law. This inborn law continues to govern the mind even after it becomes capable of reflection or conscious thought. Even the most worn-out, pedantic person who torments himself by looking inward cannot calculate most of his own life. He cannot foresee or imagine it. And this must remain so until he can lift himself by his own ears. What am I? What has my will done to make me what I am? Nothing. I have been carried into this thought, this hour, and this chain of events by hidden currents of power and mind. My ingenuity and determination have neither hindered nor helped them to any appreciable degree.

Our spontaneous action is always the best. You cannot with your best deliberation and heed come so close to any question as your spontaneous glance shall bring you, whilst you rise from your bed, or walk abroad in the morning after meditating the matter before sleep on the previous night. Our thinking is a pious reception. Our truth of thought is therefore vitiated as much by too violent direction given by our will, as by too great negligence. We do not determine what we will think. We only open our senses, clear away as we can all obstruction from the fact, and suffer the intellect to see. We have little control over our thoughts. We are the prisoners of ideas. They catch us up for moments into their heaven and so fully engage us that we take no thought for the morrow, gaze like children, without an effort to make them our own. By and by we fall out of that rapture, bethink us where we have been, what we have seen, and repeat as truly as we can what we have beheld. As far as we can recall these ecstasies we carry away in the ineffaceable memory the result, and all men and all the ages confirm it. It is called Truth. But the moment we cease to report and attempt to correct and contrive, it is not truth.

Our spontaneous actions are always the best. Suppose you meditate on a question before going to sleep. A spontaneous glance at it while rising from bed or walking outside the next morning will bring you closer to it than your most careful deliberation. Thinking is a reverent act of receiving. Our thoughts are therefore corrupted as much by directing them too forcefully through our will as by neglecting them too much. We do not decide what we will think. We only open our senses, clear away what we can of whatever obstructs the facts, and let the intellect see. We have little control over our thoughts. We are prisoners of ideas. For a moment, ideas lift us into their heaven and absorb us so completely that we give no thought to tomorrow. We gaze like children, without trying to make the ideas our own. Eventually, we fall out of that rapture and remember where we have been and what we have seen. Then we repeat as faithfully as we can what we saw. As far as we can recall these moments of ecstasy, we carry their result in an unforgettable memory. All people and all ages confirm it. It is called Truth. But the moment we stop reporting and try to correct and invent, what we say is not truth.

If we consider what persons have stimulated and profited us, we shall perceive the superiority of the spontaneous or intuitive principle over the arithmetical or logical. The first contains the second, but virtual and latent. We want in every man a long logic; we cannot pardon the absence of it, but it must not be spoken. Logic is the procession or proportionate unfolding of the intuition; but its virtue is as silent method; the moment it would appear as propositions and have a separate value it is worthless.

If we consider the people who have inspired and benefited us, we will see that intuition is superior to calculation or logic. Intuition contains logic, but in a potential and hidden form. We expect a long chain of reasoning in every person. We cannot forgive its absence, but it must not be spoken aloud. Logic is the step-by-step unfolding of intuition, with each step in proportion. But its value lies in its silent operation. The moment it appears as a set of propositions and claims a separate value, it becomes worthless.

In every man’s mind, some images, words and facts remain, without effort on his part to imprint them, which others forget, and afterwards these illustrate to him important laws. All our progress is an unfolding, like the vegetable bud. You have first an instinct, then an opinion, then a knowledge, as the plant has root, bud and fruit. Trust the instinct to the end, though you can render no reason. It is vain to hurry it. By trusting it to the end, it shall ripen into truth and you shall know why you believe.

In every person’s mind, some images, words, and facts remain without any effort to remember them. Others forget these things, but later they reveal important laws to the person who remembers them. All our progress unfolds like a plant’s bud. First you have an instinct, then an opinion, then knowledge, just as a plant has a root, bud, and fruit. Trust your instinct to the end, though you cannot explain why. There is no use trying to hurry it. If you trust your instinct to the end, it will ripen into truth, and you will know why you believe.

Each mind has its own method. A true man never acquires after college rules. What you have aggregated in a natural manner surprises and delights when it is produced. For we cannot oversee each other’s secret. And hence the differences between men in natural endowment are insignificant in comparison with their common wealth. Do you think the porter and the cook have no anecdotes, no experiences, no wonders for you? Every body knows as much as the savant. The walls of rude minds are scrawled all over with facts, with thoughts. They shall one day bring a lantern and read the inscriptions. Every man, in the degree in which he has wit and culture, finds his curiosity inflamed concerning the modes of living and thinking of other men, and especially of those classes whose minds have not been subdued by the drill of school education.

Each mind has its own way of working. A true man never learns by following college rules. What you have gathered naturally surprises and delights others when you bring it out. For we cannot see into one another’s secrets. So the differences in people’s natural gifts are insignificant compared with the wealth they share. Do you think the porter and the cook have no stories, experiences, or wonders to share with you? Everyone knows as much as the scholar. The walls of uneducated minds are covered with facts and thoughts. One day, those people will bring a lantern and read what is written there. The more wit and education a person has, the more curious he becomes about how others live and think. He is especially curious about those whose minds have not been subdued by the drill of school education.

This instinctive action never ceases in a healthy mind, but becomes richer and more frequent in its informations through all states of culture. At last comes the era of reflection, when we not only observe, but take pains to observe; when we of set purpose sit down to consider an abstract truth; when we keep the mind’s eye open whilst we converse, whilst we read, whilst we act, intent to learn the secret law of some class of facts.

This instinctive action never stops in a healthy mind. At every stage of culture, it provides richer and more frequent insights. At last comes a time of reflection, when we not only observe but make an effort to do so. We deliberately sit down to consider an abstract truth. We keep our mind’s eye open as we talk, read, and act, determined to discover the hidden law behind some class of facts.

What is the hardest task in the world? To think. I would put myself in the attitude to look in the eye an abstract truth, and I cannot. I blench and withdraw on this side and on that. I seem to know what he meant who said, No man can see God face to face and live. For example, a man explores the basis of civil government. Let him intend his mind without respite, without rest, in one direction. His best heed long time avails him nothing. Yet thoughts are flitting before him. We all but apprehend, we dimly forebode the truth. We say I will walk abroad, and the truth will take form and clearness to me. We go forth, but cannot find it. It seems as if we needed only the stillness and composed attitude of the library to seize the thought. But we come in, and are as far from it as at first. Then, in a moment, and unannounced, the truth appears. A certain wandering light appears, and is the distinction, the principle, we wanted. But the oracle comes because we had previously laid siege to the shrine. It seems as if the law of the intellect resembled that law of nature by which we now inspire, now expire the breath; by which the heart now draws in, then hurls out the blood,—the law of undulation. So now you must labor with your brains, and now you must forbear your activity and see what the great Soul showeth.

What is the hardest task in the world? To think. I try to look an abstract truth in the eye, but I cannot. I flinch and turn away, first one way, then another. I seem to understand what he meant who said that no man can see God face to face and live. For example, a man examines the basis of civil government. Let him focus his mind on it without a pause or rest. For a long time, his closest attention gets him nowhere. Yet thoughts are flitting before him. We almost grasp the truth. We dimly sense it coming. We say, I will go for a walk, and the truth will take shape and become clear to me. We go out, but cannot find it. It seems we need only the stillness and calm of the library to grasp the thought. But we come inside and are as far from it as ever. Then, suddenly and without warning, the truth appears. A kind of wandering light appears, and it is the distinction, the principle, we wanted. But the oracle comes because we had already laid siege to the shrine. The law of the intellect seems to resemble a law of nature. We breathe in, then breathe out. The heart draws in blood, then sends it out. This is the law of undulation. So you must work with your mind, and then you must stop working and see what the great Soul shows you.

The immortality of man is as legitimately preached from the intellections as from the moral volitions. Every intellection is mainly prospective. Its present value is its least. Inspect what delights you in Plutarch, in Shakspeare, in Cervantes. Each truth that a writer acquires is a lantern, which he turns full on what facts and thoughts lay already in his mind, and behold, all the mats and rubbish which had littered his garret become precious. Every trivial fact in his private biography becomes an illustration of this new principle, revisits the day, and delights all men by its piquancy and new charm. Men say, Where did he get this? and think there was something divine in his life. But no; they have myriads of facts just as good, would they only get a lamp to ransack their attics withal.

Human immortality can be preached as legitimately from acts of thought as from moral choices. Every act of thought mainly points toward the future. Its present value is its smallest part. Consider what delights you in Plutarch, Shakspeare, and Cervantes. Each truth a writer discovers is a lantern. He shines it on the facts and thoughts already in his mind. Suddenly, all the old mats and rubbish cluttering his attic become precious. Every trivial fact in his personal history illustrates the new principle. Each fact comes to light again and delights everyone with its fresh wit and charm. People ask, Where did he get this? They think there was something divine about his life. But no, they have countless facts just as good, if only they would get a lamp to search their own attics.

We are all wise. The difference between persons is not in wisdom but in art. I knew, in an academical club, a person who always deferred to me; who, seeing my whim for writing, fancied that my experiences had somewhat superior; whilst I saw that his experiences were as good as mine. Give them to me and I would make the same use of them. He held the old; he holds the new; I had the habit of tacking together the old and the new which he did not use to exercise. This may hold in the great examples. Perhaps if we should meet Shakspeare we should not be conscious of any steep inferiority; no, but of a great equality,—only that he possessed a strange skill of using, of classifying, his facts, which we lacked. For notwithstanding our utter incapacity to produce anything like Hamlet and Othello, see the perfect reception this wit and immense knowledge of life and liquid eloquence find in us all.

We are all wise. The difference between people is not in wisdom but in skill. In an academic club, I knew a person who always deferred to me. Because he saw that I liked to write, he imagined my experiences were somehow superior. Yet I saw that his experiences were as good as mine. Give me his experiences, and I would make the same use of them. He held the old, and he holds the new. I had a habit of putting the old and the new together, which he did not practice. This may also be true of great figures. Perhaps, if we met Shakspeare, we would not feel deeply inferior. No, we would feel a great equality. He simply had a remarkable skill that we lacked for using and classifying his facts. We are utterly unable to produce anything like Hamlet and Othello. Yet see how perfectly we all receive his wit, his immense knowledge of life, and his flowing eloquence.

If you gather apples in the sunshine, or make hay, or hoe corn, and then retire within doors and shut your eyes and press them with your hand, you shall still see apples hanging in the bright light with boughs and leaves thereto, or the tasselled grass, or the corn-flags, and this for five or six hours afterwards. There lie the impressions on the retentive organ, though you knew it not. So lies the whole series of natural images with which your life has made you acquainted, in your memory, though you know it not; and a thrill of passion flashes light on their dark chamber, and the active power seizes instantly the fit image, as the word of its momentary thought.

If you pick apples in the sunshine, make hay, or hoe corn, then go indoors, close your eyes, and press them with your hand, you will still see what you have been working with. You will see apples hanging in the bright light among branches and leaves, or tasseled grass, or corn leaves. These images will remain for five or six hours afterward. The impressions remain in your eyes, though you were not aware of them. In the same way, every image of nature you have encountered in your life remains in your memory, though you are unaware of it. A surge of emotion flashes light into that dark chamber. Then your active mind instantly seizes the image that fits, as the expression of its passing thought.

It is long ere we discover how rich we are. Our history, we are sure, is quite tame: we have nothing to write, nothing to infer. But our wiser years still run back to the despised recollections of childhood, and always we are fishing up some wonderful article out of that pond; until by and by we begin to suspect that the biography of the one foolish person we know is, in reality, nothing less than the miniature paraphrase of the hundred volumes of the Universal History.

It takes a long time to discover how rich we are. We are sure that our own history is quite ordinary. We think we have nothing to write about and nothing to learn from it. But as we grow wiser, we keep returning to the childhood memories we once dismissed. We are always fishing some wonderful thing out of that pond. Eventually, we begin to suspect that the life story of the one foolish person we know is really much more. It is a miniature version of the hundred volumes of Universal History.

In the intellect constructive, which we popularly designate by the word Genius, we observe the same balance of two elements as in intellect receptive. The constructive intellect produces thoughts, sentences, poems, plans, designs, systems. It is the generation of the mind, the marriage of thought with nature. To genius must always go two gifts, the thought and the publication. The first is revelation, always a miracle, which no frequency of occurrence or incessant study can ever familiarize, but which must always leave the inquirer stupid with wonder. It is the advent of truth into the world, a form of thought now for the first time bursting into the universe, a child of the old eternal soul, a piece of genuine and immeasurable greatness. It seems, for the time, to inherit all that has yet existed and to dictate to the unborn. It affects every thought of man and goes to fashion every institution. But to make it available it needs a vehicle or art by which it is conveyed to men. To be communicable it must become picture or sensible object. We must learn the language of facts. The most wonderful inspirations die with their subject if he has no hand to paint them to the senses. The ray of light passes invisible through space and only when it falls on an object is it seen. When the spiritual energy is directed on something outward, then it is a thought. The relation between it and you first makes you, the value of you, apparent to me. The rich inventive genius of the painter must be smothered and lost for want of the power of drawing, and in our happy hours we should be inexhaustible poets if once we could break through the silence into adequate rhyme. As all men have some access to primary truth, so all have some art or power of communication in their head, but only in the artist does it descend into the hand. There is an inequality, whose laws we do not yet know, between two men and between two moments of the same man, in respect to this faculty. In common hours we have the same facts as in the uncommon or inspired, but they do not sit for their portraits; they are not detached, but lie in a web. The thought of genius is spontaneous; but the power of picture or expression, in the most enriched and flowing nature, implies a mixture of will, a certain control over the spontaneous states, without which no production is possible. It is a conversion of all nature into the rhetoric of thought, under the eye of judgment, with a strenuous exercise of choice. And yet the imaginative vocabulary seems to be spontaneous also. It does not flow from experience only or mainly, but from a richer source. Not by any conscious imitation of particular forms are the grand strokes of the painter executed, but by repairing to the fountain-head of all forms in his mind. Who is the first drawing-master? Without instruction we know very well the ideal of the human form. A child knows if an arm or a leg be distorted in a picture; if the attitude be natural or grand or mean; though he has never received any instruction in drawing or heard any conversation on the subject, nor can himself draw with correctness a single feature. A good form strikes all eyes pleasantly, long before they have any science on the subject, and a beautiful face sets twenty hearts in palpitation, prior to all consideration of the mechanical proportions of the features and head. We may owe to dreams some light on the fountain of this skill; for as soon as we let our will go and let the unconscious states ensue, see what cunning draughtsmen we are! We entertain ourselves with wonderful forms of men, of women, of animals, of gardens, of woods and of monsters, and the mystic pencil wherewith we then draw has no awkwardness or inexperience, no meagreness or poverty; it can design well and group well; its composition is full of art, its colors are well laid on and the whole canvas which it paints is lifelike and apt to touch us with terror, with tenderness, with desire and with grief. Neither are the artist’s copies from experience ever mere copies, but always touched and softened by tints from this ideal domain.

In the creative intellect, which we commonly call Genius, we find the same balance of two elements as in the receptive intellect. The creative intellect produces thoughts, sentences, poems, plans, designs, and systems. This is the mind’s act of creation, the marriage of thought with nature. Genius must always have two gifts: the thought and its expression. The first is revelation, always a miracle. No matter how often revelation occurs or how constantly we study it, we can never become accustomed to it. It must always leave the seeker speechless with wonder. It is the arrival of truth in the world, a form of thought bursting into the universe for the first time. It is a child of the ancient, eternal soul, something genuinely and immeasurably great. For the moment, it seems to inherit everything that has ever existed and to dictate to generations yet unborn. It affects every human thought and helps shape every institution. But to be useful, the thought needs a medium or an art that can convey it to others. To be communicated, it must become a picture or an object the senses can perceive. We must learn the language of facts. The most wonderful inspirations die with the person who has them, if that person cannot portray them to the senses. A ray of light passes invisibly through space. Only when it falls on an object can it be seen. When spiritual energy is directed toward something outward, it becomes a thought. Your relation to that outward thing first reveals you and your value to me. A painter’s rich, inventive genius must be smothered and lost without the ability to draw. In our happy hours, we would be inexhaustible poets if only we could break through silence into fitting rhyme. Just as all people have some access to primary truth, all have some art or power of communication in their minds. But only in the artist does that power reach the hand. This ability varies between two people and between two moments in the life of one person. We do not yet know the laws governing this inequality. In ordinary hours, we have the same facts as in rare or inspired ones. But they will not sit for their portraits. They are not separate but lie tangled in a web. The thought of genius arises spontaneously. But even in the richest and most fluent nature, the power to portray or express thought involves some will. It requires a certain control over spontaneous states of mind. Without that control, no work can be produced. It turns all nature into a means of expressing thought, under the guidance of judgment and through strenuous choice. And yet the imaginative language used to express thought also seems to arise spontaneously. It comes not only or mainly from experience, but from a richer source. A painter’s great strokes are made not by consciously imitating particular forms, but by returning to the source of all forms in the mind. Who is the first drawing teacher? Without instruction, we know the ideal human form very well. A child knows if an arm or a leg is distorted in a picture. A child also knows whether a pose is natural, grand, or base. This is true even though the child has never been taught to draw or heard anyone discuss drawing. The child cannot even draw a single feature correctly. A good form pleases every eye long before the viewer has any scientific knowledge of it. A beautiful face makes twenty hearts race before anyone considers the physical proportions of its features and head. Dreams may shed some light on the source of this skill. As soon as we let go of our will and allow unconscious states to follow, see what skillful artists we become! We entertain ourselves with wonderful forms of men, women, animals, gardens, woods, and monsters. The mysterious pencil we use to draw them shows no awkwardness or inexperience, no thinness or poverty. It can design and arrange forms well. Its composition is full of skill, its colors are well applied, and the whole canvas it paints is lifelike. It can move us to terror, tenderness, desire, and grief. And an artist’s copies from experience are never mere copies. They are always touched and softened by colors from this ideal realm.

The conditions essential to a constructive mind do not appear to be so often combined but that a good sentence or verse remains fresh and memorable for a long time. Yet when we write with ease and come out into the free air of thought, we seem to be assured that nothing is easier than to continue this communication at pleasure. Up, down, around, the kingdom of thought has no inclosures, but the Muse makes us free of her city. Well, the world has a million writers. One would think then that good thought would be as familiar as air and water, and the gifts of each new hour would exclude the last. Yet we can count all our good books; nay, I remember any beautiful verse for twenty years. It is true that the discerning intellect of the world is always much in advance of the creative, so that there are many competent judges of the best book, and few writers of the best books. But some of the conditions of intellectual construction are of rare occurrence. The intellect is a whole and demands integrity in every work. This is resisted equally by a man’s devotion to a single thought and by his ambition to combine too many.

The conditions needed for a creative mind do not seem to come together very often. That is why a good sentence or verse stays fresh and memorable for a long time. Yet when we write easily and enter the open air of thought, we feel sure we can continue expressing ourselves whenever we please. In every direction, the kingdom of thought has no fences. The Muse gives us free access to her city. Well, the world has a million writers. You would think, then, that good thoughts would be as familiar as air and water. You would think each hour’s new gifts would replace the last. Yet we can count all our good books. Indeed, I remember any beautiful verse for twenty years. It is true that the world’s ability to recognize the best is always far ahead of its ability to create. So there are many capable judges of the best books, but few writers of them. Still, some of the conditions needed for intellectual creation are rare. The intellect is a whole, and it demands unity in every work. Both devotion to a single thought and ambition to combine too many thoughts stand equally in the way of that unity.

Truth is our element of life, yet if a man fasten his attention on a single aspect of truth and apply himself to that alone for a long time, the truth becomes distorted and not itself but falsehood; herein resembling the air, which is our natural element, and the breath of our nostrils, but if a stream of the same be directed on the body for a time, it causes cold, fever, and even death. How wearisome the grammarian, the phrenologist, the political or religious fanatic, or indeed any possessed mortal whose balance is lost by the exaggeration of a single topic. It is incipient insanity. Every thought is a prison also. I cannot see what you see, because I am caught up by a strong wind and blown so far in one direction that I am out of the hoop of your horizon.

Truth is the element in which we live. Yet if someone focuses on a single aspect of truth for a long time, that truth becomes distorted. It is no longer truth, but falsehood. In this way, truth resembles air, our natural element and the breath in our nostrils. But if a stream of air is directed at the body for a time, it causes cold, fever, and even death. How tiresome the grammarian, the phrenologist, the political or religious fanatic, or any person obsessed with a single subject. By exaggerating its importance, they have lost their balance. This is the beginning of insanity. Every thought is also a prison. I cannot see what you see because a strong wind has swept me so far in one direction that I am beyond the circle of your horizon.

Is it any better if the student, to avoid this offence, and to liberalize himself, aims to make a mechanical whole of history, or science, or philosophy, by a numerical addition of all the facts that fall within his vision? The world refuses to be analyzed by addition and subtraction. When we are young we spend much time and pains in filling our note-books with all definitions of Religion, Love, Poetry, Politics, Art, in the hope that in the course of a few years we shall have condensed into our encyclopaedia the net value of all the theories at which the world has yet arrived. But year after year our tables get no completeness, and at last we discover that our curve is a parabola, whose arcs will never meet.

Is it any better if a student tries to avoid this offence and broaden the mind by adding up facts? Can a student make a mechanical whole of history, science, or philosophy by adding up all the facts in view? The world refuses to be understood through addition and subtraction. When we are young, we spend much time and effort filling our notebooks with all the definitions of Religion, Love, Poetry, Politics, and Art. We hope that within a few years, we will have condensed the full value of all the world's theories so far into our encyclopedia. But year after year, our tables remain incomplete. At last we discover that our curve is a parabola, whose arcs will never meet.

Neither by detachment neither by aggregation is the integrity of the intellect transmitted to its works, but by a vigilance which brings the intellect in its greatness and best state to operate every moment. It must have the same wholeness which nature has. Although no diligence can rebuild the universe in a model by the best accumulation or disposition of details, yet does the world reappear in miniature in every event, so that all the laws of nature may be read in the smallest fact. The intellect must have the like perfection in its apprehension and in its works. For this reason, an index or mercury of intellectual proficiency is the perception of identity. We talk with accomplished persons who appear to be strangers in nature. The cloud, the tree, the turf, the bird are not theirs, have nothing of them; the world is only their lodging and table. But the poet, whose verses are to be spheral and complete, is one whom Nature cannot deceive, whatsoever face of strangeness she may put on. He feels a strict consanguinity, and detects more likeness than variety in all her changes. We are stung by the desire for new thought; but when we receive a new thought it is only the old thought with a new face, and though we make it our own we instantly crave another; we are not really enriched. For the truth was in us before it was reflected to us from natural objects; and the profound genius will cast the likeness of all creatures into every product of his wit.

The intellect passes its wholeness on to its works neither by separating things nor by gathering them together. It does so through vigilance, bringing its greatness and best powers to bear at every moment. It must have the same wholeness as nature. No amount of care in gathering or arranging details can rebuild the universe as a model. Yet the world reappears in miniature in every event. All the laws of nature can be read in the smallest fact. The intellect must have the same completeness in its understanding and its works. For this reason, the ability to perceive sameness is a measure of intellectual achievement. We talk with accomplished people who seem like strangers to nature. The cloud, the tree, the grass, and the bird are not theirs. They have nothing in common with these things. The world is only a place where they eat and sleep. But the poet, whose verses must be complete and whole, is someone Nature cannot deceive. She cannot deceive the poet, however strange a face she may wear. The poet feels a close kinship with Nature and sees more likeness than variety in all her changes. We are driven by the desire for new thoughts. But when we receive one, it is only an old thought with a new face. Though we make the thought our own, we immediately crave another. We are not truly enriched. The truth was already in us before natural objects reflected it back to us. A person of profound genius will cast the likeness of all creatures into every product of the imagination.

But if the constructive powers are rare and it is given to few men to be poets, yet every man is a receiver of this descending holy ghost, and may well study the laws of its influx. Exactly parallel is the whole rule of intellectual duty to the rule of moral duty. A self-denial no less austere than the saint’s is demanded of the scholar. He must worship truth, and forego all things for that, and choose defeat and pain, so that his treasure in thought is thereby augmented.

Although creative powers are rare and few men are given the gift of poetry, every man receives this descending Holy Spirit. Every man can study the laws by which the Spirit enters him. Intellectual duty follows exactly the same rule as moral duty. A scholar must practice self-denial just as strict as a saint’s. He must worship truth and give up everything for it. He must choose defeat and pain if they increase his treasure of thought.

God offers to every mind its choice between truth and repose. Take which you please,—you can never have both. Between these, as a pendulum, man oscillates. He in whom the love of repose predominates will accept the first creed, the first philosophy, the first political party he meets,—most likely his father’s. He gets rest, commodity, and reputation; but he shuts the door of truth. He in whom the love of truth predominates will keep himself aloof from all moorings, and afloat. He will abstain from dogmatism, and recognize all the opposite negations between which, as walls, his being is swung. He submits to the inconvenience of suspense and imperfect opinion, but he is a candidate for truth, as the other is not, and respects the highest law of his being.

God offers every mind a choice between truth and comfort. Choose whichever you please. You can never have both. People swing between the two like a pendulum. A person who loves comfort more will accept the first creed, philosophy, or political party he encounters. Most likely, he will accept his father’s. He gains rest, convenience, and a good reputation, but he shuts the door on truth. A person who loves truth more will stay free of all fixed attachments and remain afloat. He will avoid dogmatism and recognize all the opposing denials between which his being swings, as if between walls. He accepts the discomfort of uncertainty and incomplete opinions. But he is a candidate for truth, unlike the other person, and he respects the highest law of his being.

The circle of the green earth he must measure with his shoes to find the man who can yield him truth. He shall then know that there is somewhat more blessed and great in hearing than in speaking. Happy is the hearing man; unhappy the speaking man. As long as I hear truth I am bathed by a beautiful element and am not conscious of any limits to my nature. The suggestions are thousandfold that I hear and see. The waters of the great deep have ingress and egress to the soul. But if I speak, I define, I confine and am less. When Socrates speaks, Lysis and Menexenus are afflicted by no shame that they do not speak. They also are good. He likewise defers to them, loves them, whilst he speaks. Because a true and natural man contains and is the same truth which an eloquent man articulates; but in the eloquent man, because he can articulate it, it seems something the less to reside, and he turns to these silent beautiful with the more inclination and respect. The ancient sentence said, Let us be silent, for so are the gods. Silence is a solvent that destroys personality, and gives us leave to be great and universal. Every man’s progress is through a succession of teachers, each of whom seems at the time to have a superlative influence, but it at last gives place to a new. Frankly let him accept it all. Jesus says, Leave father, mother, house and lands, and follow me. Who leaves all, receives more. This is as true intellectually as morally. Each new mind we approach seems to require an abdication of all our past and present possessions. A new doctrine seems at first a subversion of all our opinions, tastes, and manner of living. Such has Swedenborg, such has Kant, such has Coleridge, such has Hegel or his interpreter Cousin seemed to many young men in this country. Take thankfully and heartily all they can give. Exhaust them, wrestle with them, let them not go until their blessing be won, and after a short season the dismay will be overpast, the excess of influence withdrawn, and they will be no longer an alarming meteor, but one more bright star shining serenely in your heaven and blending its light with all your day.

He must walk around the green earth to find the person who can offer him truth. Then he will know that there is something more blessed and great in listening than in speaking. Happy is the listener. Unhappy is the speaker. As long as I hear truth, I am immersed in a beautiful element. I feel no limits to my nature. What I hear and see suggests thousands of possibilities. The waters of the great deep flow into and out of the soul. But if I speak, I define and confine myself, and become less. When Socrates speaks, Lysis and Menexenus feel no shame at being silent. They too are good. Socrates also respects and loves them while he speaks. A true and natural person contains and is the same truth that an eloquent person expresses. But because the eloquent person can express that truth, it seems to reside in him a little less. So he turns to these silent, beautiful people with greater affection and respect. An ancient saying tells us: Let us be silent, for so are the gods. Silence dissolves personality and frees us to be great and universal. Everyone progresses through a succession of teachers. Each seems at the time to have an influence greater than any other, but eventually gives way to a new teacher. Let each person accept all of it openly. Jesus says, Leave father, mother, house and lands, and follow me. Whoever leaves all receives more. This is as true intellectually as it is morally. Each new mind we encounter seems to demand that we give up everything we have, past and present. A new doctrine at first seems to overturn all our opinions, tastes, and ways of living. That is how Swedenborg, Kant, Coleridge, Hegel, or his interpreter Cousin have seemed to many young men in this country. Accept all they can give, thankfully and wholeheartedly. Take all you can from them, wrestle with them, and do not let them go until you have won their blessing. Soon the dismay will pass and their overwhelming influence will fade. They will no longer be alarming meteors. Each will be one more bright star, shining serenely in your heaven and blending its light with all your day.

But whilst he gives himself up unreservedly to that which draws him, because that is his own, he is to refuse himself to that which draws him not, whatsoever fame and authority may attend it, because it is not his own. Entire self-reliance belongs to the intellect. One soul is a counterpoise of all souls, as a capillary column of water is a balance for the sea. It must treat things and books and sovereign genius as itself also a sovereign. If Æschylus be that man he is taken for, he has not yet done his office when he has educated the learned of Europe for a thousand years. He is now to approve himself a master of delight to me also. If he cannot do that, all his fame shall avail him nothing with me. I were a fool not to sacrifice a thousand Æschyluses to my intellectual integrity. Especially take the same ground in regard to abstract truth, the science of the mind. The Bacon, the Spinoza, the Hume, Schelling, Kant, or whosoever propounds to you a philosophy of the mind, is only a more or less awkward translator of things in your consciousness which you have also your way of seeing, perhaps of denominating. Say then, instead of too timidly poring into his obscure sense, that he has not succeeded in rendering back to you your consciousness. He has not succeeded; now let another try. If Plato cannot, perhaps Spinoza will. If Spinoza cannot, then perhaps Kant. Anyhow, when at last it is done, you will find it is no recondite, but a simple, natural, common state which the writer restores to you.

But he should give himself fully to what draws him, because it is his own. He should refuse what does not draw him, whatever fame and authority it may have, because it is not his own. The intellect must rely entirely on itself. One soul balances all other souls, just as a thin column of water balances the sea. The soul must approach things, books, and supreme genius as their equal in authority. If Æschylus is the man he is believed to be, he has not yet fulfilled his purpose by educating Europe’s learned people for a thousand years. He must now prove that he can delight me too. If he cannot, all his fame will count for nothing with me. I would be a fool not to sacrifice a thousand Æschyluses for the sake of my intellectual integrity. Take the same position, especially, toward abstract truth and the study of the mind. Bacon, Spinoza, Hume, Schelling, Kant, or anyone else who offers you a philosophy of the mind, is merely translating, more or less awkwardly, what is in your own consciousness. You too have your own way of seeing these things, and perhaps of naming them. So instead of studying a philosopher’s obscure meaning too timidly, say that he has failed to express your consciousness in terms you recognize. He has failed. Now let someone else try. If Plato cannot do it, perhaps Spinoza will. If Spinoza cannot, then perhaps Kant will. In any case, when it is finally done, you will find that the writer has brought you back to a simple, natural, common state, not some obscure one.

But let us end these didactics. I will not, though the subject might provoke it, speak to the open question between Truth and Love. I shall not presume to interfere in the old politics of the skies;—“The cherubim know most; the seraphim love most.” The gods shall settle their own quarrels. But I cannot recite, even thus rudely, laws of the intellect, without remembering that lofty and sequestered class of men who have been its prophets and oracles, the high-priesthood of the pure reason, the Trismegisti, the expounders of the principles of thought from age to age. When at long intervals we turn over their abstruse pages, wonderful seems the calm and grand air of these few, these great spiritual lords who have walked in the world,—these of the old religion,—dwelling in a worship which makes the sanctities of Christianity look parvenues and popular; for “persuasion is in soul, but necessity is in intellect.” This band of grandees, Hermes, Heraclitus, Empedocles, Plato, Plotinus, Olympiodorus, Proclus, Synesius and the rest, have somewhat so vast in their logic, so primary in their thinking, that it seems antecedent to all the ordinary distinctions of rhetoric and literature, and to be at once poetry and music and dancing and astronomy and mathematics. I am present at the sowing of the seed of the world. With a geometry of sunbeams the soul lays the foundations of nature. The truth and grandeur of their thought is proved by its scope and applicability, for it commands the entire schedule and inventory of things for its illustration. But what marks its elevation and has even a comic look to us, is the innocent serenity with which these babe-like Jupiters sit in their clouds, and from age to age prattle to each other and to no contemporary. Well assured that their speech is intelligible and the most natural thing in the world, they add thesis to thesis, without a moment’s heed of the universal astonishment of the human race below, who do not comprehend their plainest argument; nor do they ever relent so much as to insert a popular or explaining sentence, nor testify the least displeasure or petulance at the dulness of their amazed auditory. The angels are so enamored of the language that is spoken in heaven that they will not distort their lips with the hissing and unmusical dialects of men, but speak their own, whether there be any who understand it or not.

But let us put an end to these lessons. Though the subject might tempt me, I will not address the unsettled question between Truth and Love. I will not presume to interfere in the ancient politics of the heavens. “The cherubim know most; the seraphim love most.” Let the gods settle their own quarrels. But even this rough account of the laws of the intellect brings to mind a lofty and secluded group of men. They have been the intellect’s prophets and oracles, the high priests of pure reason, the Trismegisti. From age to age, they have explained the principles of thought. When we turn to their difficult pages, as we do at long intervals, their calm and grandeur seem extraordinary. These few great spiritual lords have walked in the world as followers of the old religion. They practiced a form of worship that makes the sacred things of Christianity look like parvenues and popular novelties. For “persuasion is in soul, but necessity is in intellect.” This company of great men includes Hermes, Heraclitus, Empedocles, Plato, Plotinus, Olympiodorus, Proclus, Synesius, and the rest. Their logic is so vast, and their thinking so fundamental, that it seems to come before all ordinary distinctions of rhetoric and literature. It seems to be poetry, music, dancing, astronomy, and mathematics all at once. I am present at the sowing of the seed of the world. With a geometry of sunbeams, the soul lays the foundations of nature. The range and usefulness of their thought prove its truth and grandeur. For they can draw on the entire list and inventory of things to illustrate it. But what shows how elevated their thought is also looks almost comic to us. These baby-like Jupiters sit in their clouds with innocent serenity, and from age to age they chatter to one another and to none of their contemporaries. They are certain that their speech is understandable and the most natural thing in the world. So they add one proposition to another, without a moment’s notice of the astonishment of the whole human race below. Those people do not understand even their simplest argument. Yet the philosophers never go so far as to add a sentence to explain themselves to ordinary people. Nor do they show the least displeasure or irritation at the slowness of their amazed listeners. The angels are so fond of the language spoken in heaven that they will not twist their lips to speak the hissing, unmusical dialects of men. They speak their own language, whether anyone understands it or not.