LANGUAGE is a third use which Nature subserves to man. Nature is the vehicle, and threefold degree.
LANGUAGE is a third way Nature serves humanity. Nature is the medium, operating on three levels.
1. Words are signs of natural facts.
1. Words are symbols for facts in nature.
2. Particular natural facts are symbols of particular spiritual facts.
2. Specific facts in nature are symbols of specific spiritual truths.
3. Nature is the symbol of spirit.
3. Nature symbolizes spirit.
1. Words are signs of natural facts. The use of natural history is to give us aid in supernatural history: the use of the outer creation, to give us language for the beings and changes of the inward creation. Every word which is used to express a moral or intellectual fact, if traced to its root, is found to be borrowed from some material appearance. Right means straight; wrong means twisted. Spirit primarily means wind; transgression, the crossing of a line; supercilious, the raising of the eyebrow. We say the heart to express emotion, the head to denote thought; and thought and emotion are words borrowed from sensible things, and now appropriated to spiritual nature. Most of the process by which this transformation is made, is hidden from us in the remote time when language was framed; but the same tendency may be daily observed in children. Children and savages use only nouns or names of things, which they convert into verbs, and apply to analogous mental acts.
1. Words are signs of facts in nature. Studying the natural world helps us understand the spiritual world. The outer creation gives us language for the beings and changes within us. Every word used to express a moral or intellectual fact comes, at its root, from something in the physical world. Right means straight. Wrong means twisted. Spirit originally means wind. Transgression means crossing a line. Supercilious means raising the eyebrow. We use the heart to express emotion and the head to represent thought. Even thought and emotion come from words for things we can sense, now used to describe our spiritual nature. Most of this shift in meaning is hidden from us in the distant past, when language took shape. But we can observe the same tendency in children every day. Children and savages use only nouns, or names of things. They turn these into verbs and apply them to similar mental acts.
2. But this origin of all words that convey a spiritual import,—so conspicuous a fact in the history of language,—is our least debt to nature. It is not words only that are emblematic; it is things which are emblematic. Every natural fact is a symbol of some spiritual fact. Every appearance in nature corresponds to some state of the mind, and that state of the mind can only be described by presenting that natural appearance as its picture. An enraged man is a lion, a cunning man is a fox, a firm man is a rock, a learned man is a torch. A lamb is innocence; a snake is subtle spite; flowers express to us the delicate affections. Light and darkness are our familiar expression for knowledge and ignorance; and heat for love. Visible distance behind and before us, is respectively our image of memory and hope.
2. But nature’s role in the origin of all words with spiritual meaning is our smallest debt to it. This origin is a striking fact in the history of language. Yet words are not the only symbols. Things are symbols too. Every fact in nature is a symbol of some spiritual fact. Every appearance in nature corresponds to some state of mind. That state of mind can only be described by using that natural appearance as its picture. An angry man is a lion, a cunning man is a fox, a steadfast man is a rock. A learned man is a torch. A lamb is innocence, a snake is sly malice, and flowers express tender feelings to us. Light and darkness are our familiar expressions for knowledge and ignorance, and heat for love. The visible distance behind us is our image of memory, and the distance ahead is our image of hope.
Who looks upon a river in a meditative hour, and is not reminded of the flux of all things? Throw a stone into the stream, and the circles that propagate themselves are the beautiful type of all influence. Man is conscious of a universal soul within or behind his individual life, wherein, as in a firmament, the natures of Justice, Truth, Love, Freedom, arise and shine. This universal soul, he calls Reason: it is not mine, or thine, or his, but we are its; we are its property and men. And the blue sky in which the private earth is buried, the sky with its eternal calm, and full of everlasting orbs, is the type of Reason. That which, intellectually considered, we call Reason, considered in relation to nature, we call Spirit. Spirit is the Creator. Spirit hath life in itself. And man in all ages and countries, embodies it in his language, as the FATHER.
Who looks at a river in a thoughtful moment without being reminded that all things change? Throw a stone into the stream, and the spreading circles beautifully represent all influence. Each person senses a universal soul within or behind their individual life. Within it, as in the heavens, Justice, Truth, Love, and Freedom rise and shine. We call this universal soul Reason. It is not mine, yours, or his. Rather, we belong to it. We are its property and its people. The blue sky surrounding our separate earth represents Reason, with its eternal calm and its everlasting heavenly bodies. What we call Reason when thinking about the mind, we call Spirit in relation to nature. Spirit is the Creator. Spirit has life within itself. In every age and country, people express it in their language as the FATHER.
It is easily seen that there is nothing lucky or capricious in these analogies, but that they are constant, and pervade nature. These are not the dreams of a few poets, here and there, but man is an analogist, and studies relations in all objects. He is placed in the centre of beings, and a ray of relation passes from every other being to him. And neither can man be understood without these objects, nor these objects without man. All the facts in natural history taken by themselves, have no value, but are barren, like a single sex. But marry it to human history, and it is full of life. Whole Floras, all Linnaeus' and Buffon's volumes, are dry catalogues of facts; but the most trivial of these facts, the habit of a plant, the organs, or work, or noise of an insect, applied to the illustration of a fact in intellectual philosophy, or, in any way associated to human nature, affects us in the most lively and agreeable manner. The seed of a plant,—to what affecting analogies in the nature of man, is that little fruit made use of, in all discourse, up to the voice of Paul, who calls the human corpse a seed,—"It is sown a natural body; it is raised a spiritual body." The motion of the earth round its axis, and round the sun, makes the day, and the year. These are certain amounts of brute light and heat. But is there no intent of an analogy between man's life and the seasons? And do the seasons gain no grandeur or pathos from that analogy? The instincts of the ant are very unimportant, considered as the ant's; but the moment a ray of relation is seen to extend from it to man, and the little drudge is seen to be a monitor, a little body with a mighty heart, then all its habits, even that said to be recently observed, that it never sleeps, become sublime.
It is easy to see that these analogies are neither accidental nor arbitrary. They are constant and run throughout nature. They are not merely the dreams of a few scattered poets. Human beings naturally draw analogies and study relationships among all things. Each person stands at the center of existence, with a ray of connection reaching them from every other being. We cannot understand people without these things, or these things without people. All the facts of natural history, taken alone, have no value. They are barren, like one sex without the other. But join natural history to human history, and it becomes full of life. Entire books on plants, all the volumes of Linnaeus and Buffon, are dry catalogs of facts. Yet even the smallest of these facts can affect us deeply and pleasantly when connected with human nature. A plant’s habits, an insect’s organs, its work, or its sounds can illustrate a truth about the mind. A plant’s seed, that little fruit, has inspired such moving comparisons with human nature in all kinds of discussion. These reach even to Paul, who calls the human corpse a seed. "It is sown a natural body; it is raised a spiritual body." The earth’s rotation on its axis creates the day, and its orbit around the sun creates the year. These are fixed amounts of mere light and heat. But is no analogy intended between human life and the seasons? And do the seasons gain no grandeur or emotional depth from that analogy? The ant’s instincts are very unimportant when considered only as the ant’s. But everything changes the moment we see a connection between the ant and ourselves. The little laborer becomes a teacher, a small body with a mighty heart. Then all its habits become sublime, even its reported habit, said to have been recently observed, of never sleeping.
Because of this radical correspondence between visible things and human thoughts, savages, who have only what is necessary, converse in figures. As we go back in history, language becomes more picturesque, until its infancy, when it is all poetry; or all spiritual facts are represented by natural symbols. The same symbols are found to make the original elements of all languages. It has moreover been observed, that the idioms of all languages approach each other in passages of the greatest eloquence and power. And as this is the first language, so is it the last. This immediate dependence of language upon nature, this conversion of an outward phenomenon into a type of somewhat in human life, never loses its power to affect us. It is this which gives that piquancy to the conversation of a strong-natured farmer or back-woodsman, which all men relish.
Because visible things and human thoughts correspond so deeply, people in societies with only life’s necessities speak in figures. The further back we go in history, the more vivid language becomes. In its earliest form, it is all poetry. In other words, all spiritual facts are expressed through symbols from nature. The same symbols form the basic elements of all languages. People have also observed that all languages grow more alike in their most eloquent and powerful passages. And just as this is the first language, it is also the last. Language draws directly from nature, turning an outward event into a symbol of something in human life. This never loses its power to move us. It gives a distinctive flavor to the conversation of a strong-spirited farmer or backwoodsman, which everyone enjoys.
A man's power to connect his thought with its proper symbol, and so to utter it, depends on the simplicity of his character, that is, upon his love of truth, and his desire to communicate it without loss. The corruption of man is followed by the corruption of language. When simplicity of character and the sovereignty of ideas is broken up by the prevalence of secondary desires, the desire of riches, of pleasure, of power, and of praise,—and duplicity and falsehood take place of simplicity and truth, the power over nature as an interpreter of the will, is in a degree lost; new imagery ceases to be created, and old words are perverted to stand for things which are not; a paper currency is employed, when there is no bullion in the vaults. In due time, the fraud is manifest, and words lose all power to stimulate the understanding or the affections. Hundreds of writers may be found in every long-civilized nation, who for a short time believe, and make others believe, that they see and utter truths, who do not of themselves clothe one thought in its natural garment, but who feed unconsciously on the language created by the primary writers of the country, those, namely, who hold primarily on nature.
A person’s ability to express a thought through its proper symbol depends on a straightforward, honest character. It depends on loving truth and wanting to communicate it without losing any of its meaning. As people become corrupt, language becomes corrupt too. Desires for wealth, pleasure, power, and praise displace honesty of character and the authority of ideas. Deceit and falsehood take the place of honesty and truth. People then lose some of their ability to use nature to express their will. They stop creating new imagery and twist old words to represent things that do not exist. They use paper money when there is no gold or silver in the vaults to back it. In time, the fraud becomes clear, and words lose all power to stir understanding or feeling. Every nation with a long history of civilization has hundreds of writers like this. For a short time, they believe, and make others believe, that they see and express truths. Yet they cannot independently give even one thought its natural form of expression. Instead, they unknowingly live on language created by their country’s original writers, those who draw directly from nature.
But wise men pierce this rotten diction and fasten words again to visible things; so that picturesque language is at once a commanding certificate that he who employs it, is a man in alliance with truth and God. The moment our discourse rises above the ground line of familiar facts, and is inflamed with passion or exalted by thought, it clothes itself in images. A man conversing in earnest, if he watch his intellectual processes, will find that a material image, more or less luminous, arises in his mind, cotemporaneous with every thought, which furnishes the vestment of the thought. Hence, good writing and brilliant discourse are perpetual allegories. This imagery is spontaneous. It is the blending of experience with the present action of the mind. It is proper creation. It is the working of the Original Cause through the instruments he has already made.
But wise people see through this decayed language and reconnect words to visible things. Vivid language is therefore powerful proof that its speaker is allied with truth and God. The moment our speech rises above familiar facts, stirred by passion or lifted by thought, it takes shape in images. Anyone speaking earnestly who observes their own thinking will find a physical image appearing alongside every thought. This image, more or less vivid, gives the thought its form. Thus, good writing and brilliant speech are ongoing allegories. This imagery comes naturally. It blends experience with the mind’s present activity. It is true creation. It is the Original Cause at work through the instruments he has already made.
These facts may suggest the advantage which the country-life possesses for a powerful mind, over the artificial and curtailed life of cities. We know more from nature than we can at will communicate. Its light flows into the mind evermore, and we forget its presence. The poet, the orator, bred in the woods, whose senses have been nourished by their fair and appeasing changes, year after year, without design and without heed,—shall not lose their lesson altogether, in the roar of cities or the broil of politics. Long hereafter, amidst agitation and terror in national councils,—in the hour of revolution,—these solemn images shall reappear in their morning lustre, as fit symbols and words of the thoughts which the passing events shall awaken. At the call of a noble sentiment, again the woods wave, the pines murmur, the river rolls and shines, and the cattle low upon the mountains, as he saw and heard them in his infancy. And with these forms, the spells of persuasion, the keys of power are put into his hands.
These facts may suggest why country life benefits a powerful mind more than the artificial, restricted life of cities. We learn more from nature than we can express at will. Its light flows constantly into the mind, and we forget it is there. Consider the poet or public speaker raised in the woods. Year after year, their beautiful, soothing changes have nourished his senses, without intention or attention on his part. He will not entirely lose their lesson in the roar of cities or the turmoil of politics. Long afterward, amid unrest and terror in national councils, in the hour of revolution, these majestic images will return. They will shine with their original freshness. They will offer fitting symbols and words for the thoughts that passing events awaken. At the call of a noble feeling, the woods wave again, the pines murmur, and the river flows and shines. Cattle low on the mountains, just as he saw and heard them in his earliest childhood. With these images, the magic of persuasion and the keys to power are placed in his hands.
3. We are thus assisted by natural objects in the expression of particular meanings. But how great a language to convey such pepper-corn informations! Did it need such noble races of creatures, this profusion of forms, this host of orbs in heaven, to furnish man with the dictionary and grammar of his municipal speech? Whilst we use this grand cipher to expedite the affairs of our pot and kettle, we feel that we have not yet put it to its use, neither are able. We are like travellers using the cinders of a volcano to roast their eggs. Whilst we see that it always stands ready to clothe what we would say, we cannot avoid the question, whether the characters are not significant of themselves. Have mountains, and waves, and skies, no significance but what we consciously give them, when we employ them as emblems of our thoughts? The world is emblematic. Parts of speech are metaphors, because the whole of nature is a metaphor of the human mind. The laws of moral nature answer to those of matter as face to face in a glass. "The visible world and the relation of its parts, is the dial plate of the invisible." The axioms of physics translate the laws of ethics. Thus, "the whole is greater than its part;" "reaction is equal to action;" "the smallest weight may be made to lift the greatest, the difference of weight being compensated by time;" and many the like propositions, which have an ethical as well as physical sense. These propositions have a much more extensive and universal sense when applied to human life, than when confined to technical use.
3. Natural objects help us express particular meanings in this way. But what a vast language for conveying such tiny scraps of information! Were such noble kinds of creatures, so many forms, and so many heavenly bodies really needed? Was all this merely to give us the dictionary and grammar of everyday speech? We use this grand code to manage the affairs of our pots and kettles. Yet we feel we have neither used it for its true purpose nor found ourselves able to do so. We are like travelers using a volcano’s cinders to roast their eggs. Nature always stands ready to give form to what we want to say. Yet we cannot help asking whether its symbols have meanings of their own. Do mountains, waves, and skies mean only what we consciously assign them when they represent our thoughts? The world is symbolic. The elements of language are metaphors because all of nature is a metaphor for the human mind. The laws of moral life correspond to the laws of matter like a face and its reflection in a mirror. "The visible world and the relationships among its parts form the clock face of the invisible." The basic principles of physics express the laws of ethics. For example, "the whole is greater than its part" and "reaction is equal to action." Another states, "the smallest weight can lift the greatest if enough time makes up for the difference in weight." These and many similar principles have ethical as well as physical meanings. Their meaning is far broader and more universal when applied to human life than when limited to technical uses.
In like manner, the memorable words of history, and the proverbs of nations, consist usually of a natural fact, selected as a picture or parable of a moral truth. Thus; A rolling stone gathers no moss; A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush; A cripple in the right way, will beat a racer in the wrong; Make hay while the sun shines; 'T is hard to carry a full cup even; Vinegar is the son of wine; The last ounce broke the camel's back; Long-lived trees make roots first;—and the like. In their primary sense these are trivial facts, but we repeat them for the value of their analogical import. What is true of proverbs, is true of all fables, parables, and allegories.
Similarly, history’s memorable sayings and the proverbs of nations usually use a fact from nature to illustrate a moral truth. For example, a rolling stone gathers no moss. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. A person who limps on the right path will beat a runner on the wrong one. Make hay while the sun shines. It is hard to carry a full cup without spilling. Vinegar is the child of wine. The last ounce broke the camel’s back. Long-lived trees put down roots first. There are many more like these. Taken literally, these are trivial facts. But we repeat them because we value the broader truths they illustrate. What is true of proverbs is true of all fables, parables, and allegories.
This relation between the mind and matter is not fancied by some poet, but stands in the will of God, and so is free to be known by all men. It appears to men, or it does not appear. When in fortunate hours we ponder this miracle, the wise man doubts, if, at all other times, he is not blind and deaf;
This connection between mind and matter is not something a poet imagined. It exists by God's will, so everyone is free to know it. People either see it or they do not. In fortunate moments, we reflect on this miracle. The wise person then wonders whether, at all other times, they are blind and deaf.
—"Can these things be, And overcome us like a summer's cloud, Without our special wonder?"
"Can these things happen and pass over us like a summer cloud without filling us with wonder?"
for the universe becomes transparent, and the light of higher laws than its own, shines through it. It is the standing problem which has exercised the wonder and the study of every fine genius since the world began; from the era of the Egyptians and the Brahmins, to that of Pythagoras, of Plato, of Bacon, of Leibnitz, of Swedenborg. There sits the Sphinx at the road-side, and from age to age, as each prophet comes by, he tries his fortune at reading her riddle. There seems to be a necessity in spirit to manifest itself in material forms; and day and night, river and storm, beast and bird, acid and alkali, preexist in necessary Ideas in the mind of God, and are what they are by virtue of preceding affections, in the world of spirit. A Fact is the end or last issue of spirit. The visible creation is the terminus or the circumference of the invisible world. "Material objects," said a French philosopher, "are necessarily kinds of scoriae of the substantial thoughts of the Creator, which must always preserve an exact relation to their first origin; in other words, visible nature must have a spiritual and moral side."
For the universe becomes transparent, and the light of laws higher than its own shines through it. This enduring mystery has inspired wonder and study in every great mind since the world began. It occupied the Egyptians and the Brahmins, then Pythagoras, Plato, Bacon, Leibniz, and Swedenborg. The Sphinx sits beside the road. From age to age, each passing prophet tries his luck at solving her riddle. Spirit seems compelled to express itself in material forms. Day and night, river and storm, beast and bird, acid and alkali exist first as necessary Ideas in God's mind. They are what they are because of feelings and inclinations that precede them in the spiritual world. A fact is the final result of spirit. The visible creation is the endpoint or outer boundary of the invisible world. "Material objects," said a French philosopher, "are necessarily a kind of slag, the residue of the Creator's substantial thoughts. They must always preserve an exact relationship to their original source. In other words, visible nature must have a spiritual and moral side."
This doctrine is abstruse, and though the images of "garment," "scoriae," "mirror," &c., may stimulate the fancy, we must summon the aid of subtler and more vital expositors to make it plain. "Every scripture is to be interpreted by the same spirit which gave it forth,"—is the fundamental law of criticism. A life in harmony with nature, the love of truth and of virtue, will purge the eyes to understand her text. By degrees we may come to know the primitive sense of the permanent objects of nature, so that the world shall be to us an open book, and every form significant of its hidden life and final cause.
This doctrine is hard to understand. Images like "garment," "slag," and "mirror" may stir the imagination. But we need subtler, more deeply living guides to make it clear. "Every sacred text must be interpreted through the same spirit that brought it forth." This is the basic law of interpretation. Living in harmony with nature and loving truth and virtue will clear our vision so we can understand her text. Gradually, we may come to understand the original meaning of nature’s enduring objects. Then the world will be an open book to us. Every form will reveal its hidden life and ultimate purpose.
A new interest surprises us, whilst, under the view now suggested, we contemplate the fearful extent and multitude of objects; since "every object rightly seen, unlocks a new faculty of the soul." That which was unconscious truth, becomes, when interpreted and defined in an object, a part of the domain of knowledge,—a new weapon in the magazine of power.
A new interest surprises us as we consider the overwhelming number and vast range of objects from this perspective. For "every object, rightly seen, unlocks a new ability of the soul." Truth we knew unconsciously becomes part of our knowledge when an object reveals it and gives it clear form. It becomes a new weapon in our store of power.