IN inquiries respecting the laws of the world and the frame of things, the highest reason is always the truest. That which seems faintly possible—it is so refined, is often faint and dim because it is deepest seated in the mind among the eternal verities. Empirical science is apt to cloud the sight, and, by the very knowledge of functions and processes, to bereave the student of the manly contemplation of the whole. The savant becomes unpoetic. But the best read naturalist who lends an entire and devout attention to truth, will see that there remains much to learn of his relation to the world, and that it is not to be learned by any addition or subtraction or other comparison of known quantities, but is arrived at by untaught sallies of the spirit, by a continual self-recovery, and by entire humility. He will perceive that there are far more excellent qualities in the student than preciseness and infallibility; that a guess is often more fruitful than an indisputable affirmation, and that a dream may let us deeper into the secret of nature than a hundred concerted experiments.
When we study the world’s laws and structure, the highest reasoning is always the truest. An idea may seem barely possible because it is so subtle. Often, it seems faint and unclear because it lies deepest in the mind, among eternal truths. Empirical science tends to cloud our vision. Knowledge of functions and processes can rob students of a strong, full view of the whole. The scholar loses his poetic sense. But even the most widely read naturalist who gives truth his complete, devoted attention will recognize how much remains unknown. He still has much to learn about his relationship to the world. He cannot learn it by adding, subtracting, or otherwise comparing known quantities. He reaches it through spontaneous leaps of the spirit, continually returning to himself, and complete humility. He will see that students have qualities far more valuable than precision and freedom from error. A guess is often more fruitful than an undeniable statement. A dream may lead us deeper into nature’s secrets than a hundred carefully planned experiments.
For, the problems to be solved are precisely those which the physiologist and the naturalist omit to state. It is not so pertinent to man to know all the individuals of the animal kingdom, as it is to know whence and whereto is this tyrannizing unity in his constitution, which evermore separates and classifies things, endeavoring to reduce the most diverse to one form. When I behold a rich landscape, it is less to my purpose to recite correctly the order and superposition of the strata, than to know why all thought of multitude is lost in a tranquil sense of unity. I cannot greatly honor minuteness in details, so long as there is no hint to explain the relation between things and thoughts; no ray upon the metaphysics of conchology, of botany, of the arts, to show the relation of the forms of flowers, shells, animals, architecture, to the mind, and build science upon ideas. In a cabinet of natural history, we become sensible of a certain occult recognition and sympathy in regard to the most unwieldly and eccentric forms of beast, fish, and insect. The American who has been confined, in his own country, to the sight of buildings designed after foreign models, is surprised on entering York Minster or St. Peter's at Rome, by the feeling that these structures are imitations also,—faint copies of an invisible archetype. Nor has science sufficient humanity, so long as the naturalist overlooks that wonderful congruity which subsists between man and the world; of which he is lord, not because he is the most subtile inhabitant, but because he is its head and heart, and finds something of himself in every great and small thing, in every mountain stratum, in every new law of color, fact of astronomy, or atmospheric influence which observation or analysis lay open. A perception of this mystery inspires the muse of George Herbert, the beautiful psalmist of the seventeenth century. The following lines are part of his little poem on Man.
For the problems we must solve are precisely those that physiologists and naturalists leave unstated. Knowing every creature in the animal kingdom matters less to us than understanding the commanding drive toward unity within us. Where does it come from, and what is its purpose? It constantly separates and classifies things, trying to bring the most diverse things into one form. When I look at a rich landscape, accurately listing its rock layers and their arrangement matters less to me. I want to know why every thought of many separate things disappears into a peaceful sense of unity. I cannot greatly value attention to tiny details while nothing explains the relationship between things and thoughts. We need some light on the metaphysics of the study of shells, of botany, and of the arts. It should reveal how the forms of flowers, shells, animals, and architecture relate to the mind. It should build science on ideas. In a natural history collection, we feel a mysterious recognition and kinship with even the most awkward and strange creatures. This holds for beasts, fish, and insects alike. An American at home has seen only buildings based on foreign models. On entering York Minster or St. Peter's in Rome, he is surprised to feel that these buildings are imitations too. They are faint copies of an invisible original. Science also lacks enough human understanding while naturalists overlook the wonderful harmony between humanity and the world. Man rules this world, not because he is its cleverest inhabitant, but because he is its head and heart. He finds something of himself in every great and small thing. He finds it in every rock layer and every new law of color. He finds it in every astronomical fact or atmospheric influence revealed by observation or analysis. An awareness of this mystery inspires George Herbert, the seventeenth-century poet who wrote such beautiful songs of praise. The following lines come from his short poem on Man.
"Man is all symmetry, Full of proportions, one limb to another, And to all the world besides. Each part may call the farthest, brother; For head with foot hath private amity, And both with moons and tides.
"Humanity is all symmetry, full of balanced proportions, each limb in harmony with the others and with the whole world. Each part may call even the farthest part its brother. The head and foot share a hidden friendship, and both share it with moons and tides.
"Nothing hath got so far But man hath caught and kept it as his prey; His eyes dismount the highest star; He is in little all the sphere. Herbs gladly cure our flesh, because that they Find their acquaintance there.
"Nothing has gone so far that man has not caught and kept it as his prey. His eyes bring down the highest star. He contains the whole universe in miniature. Herbs gladly heal our flesh because they recognize their kinship with it.
"For us, the winds do blow, The earth doth rest, heaven move, and fountains flow; Nothing we see, but means our good, As our delight, or as our treasure; The whole is either our cupboard of food, Or cabinet of pleasure.
"For us, the winds blow, the earth rests, the heavens move, and springs flow. Everything we see serves our good, either as our delight or as our treasure. Everything is either our cupboard of food or our cabinet of pleasure.
"The stars have us to bed: Night draws the curtain; which the sun withdraws. Music and light attend our head. All things unto our flesh are kind, In their descent and being; to our mind, In their ascent and cause.
"The stars send us to bed. Night draws the curtain, and the sun pulls it back. Music and light surround our heads. All things are kind to our bodies as they descend into physical existence. They are kind to our minds as they rise toward their source.
"More servants wait on man Than he'll take notice of. In every path, He treads down that which doth befriend him When sickness makes him pale and wan. Oh mighty love! Man is one world, and hath Another to attend him."
"More servants care for man than he will ever notice. On every path, he tramples plants that help him when sickness leaves him pale and weak. Oh mighty love! Man is a world of his own, with another world to care for him."
The perception of this class of truths makes the attraction which draws men to science, but the end is lost sight of in attention to the means. In view of this half-sight of science, we accept the sentence of Plato, that, "poetry comes nearer to vital truth than history." Every surmise and vaticination of the mind is entitled to a certain respect, and we learn to prefer imperfect theories, and sentences, which contain glimpses of truth, to digested systems which have no one valuable suggestion. A wise writer will feel that the ends of study and composition are best answered by announcing undiscovered regions of thought, and so communicating, through hope, new activity to the torpid spirit.
Recognizing these truths draws people to science, but attention to the methods makes them lose sight of the goal. Because science sees only part of the truth, we accept Plato’s statement that “poetry comes nearer to vital truth than history.” Every guess and prediction of the mind deserves some respect. We learn to prefer incomplete theories and statements that offer glimpses of truth over systematic accounts without one valuable insight. A wise writer will recognize how best to fulfill the purposes of study and writing. This means pointing toward unexplored regions of thought, and using hope to stir the sluggish spirit into new activity.
I shall therefore conclude this essay with some traditions of man and nature, which a certain poet sang to me; and which, as they have always been in the world, and perhaps reappear to every bard, may be both history and prophecy.
I will therefore end this essay with some traditional stories about humanity and nature that a certain poet sang to me. These stories have always existed in the world, and perhaps they come to every poet again. They may be both history and prophecy.
'The foundations of man are not in matter, but in spirit. But the element of spirit is eternity. To it, therefore, the longest series of events, the oldest chronologies are young and recent. In the cycle of the universal man, from whom the known individuals proceed, centuries are points, and all history is but the epoch of one degradation.
'Human beings are rooted not in matter, but in spirit. And spirit exists in eternity. To spirit, therefore, the longest chains of events and the oldest timelines are young and recent. In the life cycle of universal humanity, from which all known individuals come, centuries are mere points in time. All history is only a single period of decline.
'We distrust and deny inwardly our sympathy with nature. We own and disown our relation to it, by turns. We are, like Nebuchadnezzar, dethroned, bereft of reason, and eating grass like an ox. But who can set limits to the remedial force of spirit?
'Deep down, we distrust and deny our connection with nature. We take turns accepting and rejecting our relationship with it. Like Nebuchadnezzar, we are stripped of our throne and reason, eating grass like an ox. But who can set limits on the healing power of spirit?
'A man is a god in ruins. When men are innocent, life shall be longer, and shall pass into the immortal, as gently as we awake from dreams. Now, the world would be insane and rabid, if these disorganizations should last for hundreds of years. It is kept in check by death and infancy. Infancy is the perpetual Messiah, which comes into the arms of fallen men, and pleads with them to return to paradise.
'A human being is a god in ruins. When people are innocent, life will last longer. It will pass into immortality as gently as we wake from dreams. As things are, the world would become mad and violent if these disorders lasted for hundreds of years. Death and infancy keep it in check. Infancy is the ever-returning Messiah, coming into the arms of fallen people and pleading with them to return to paradise.
'Man is the dwarf of himself. Once he was permeated and dissolved by spirit. He filled nature with his overflowing currents. Out from him sprang the sun and moon; from man, the sun; from woman, the moon. The laws of his mind, the periods of his actions externized themselves into day and night, into the year and the seasons. But, having made for himself this huge shell, his waters retired; he no longer fills the veins and veinlets; he is shrunk to a drop. He sees, that the structure still fits him, but fits him colossally. Say, rather, once it fitted him, now it corresponds to him from far and on high. He adores timidly his own work. Now is man the follower of the sun, and woman the follower of the moon. Yet sometimes he starts in his slumber, and wonders at himself and his house, and muses strangely at the resemblance betwixt him and it. He perceives that if his law is still paramount, if still he have elemental power, if his word is sterling yet in nature, it is not conscious power, it is not inferior but superior to his will. It is Instinct.' Thus my Orphic poet sang.
'Man is a shrunken version of himself. Once, spirit filled him and dissolved his boundaries. His overflowing currents filled nature. The sun and moon sprang from him. From man came the sun, from woman, the moon. The laws of his mind and the rhythms of his actions took outward form. They became day and night, the year and the seasons. But after making this huge shell for himself, his waters withdrew. He no longer fills its veins, large or small. He has shrunk to a drop. He sees that the structure still fits him, but on an enormous scale. Or rather, it once fitted him. Now it reflects him from far away and high above. He timidly worships his own work. Now man follows the sun, and woman follows the moon. Yet sometimes he stirs in his sleep and marvels at himself and his home. He ponders the strange resemblance between them. He senses that his law may still rule supreme, that he may still possess the power of nature's basic forces. His word may still carry its full authority in nature. If so, this power is not conscious. It is not beneath his will but above it. It is Instinct.' So sang my Orphic poet.
At present, man applies to nature but half his force. He works on the world with his understanding alone. He lives in it, and masters it by a penny-wisdom; and he that works most in it, is but a half-man, and whilst his arms are strong and his digestion good, his mind is imbruted, and he is a selfish savage. His relation to nature, his power over it, is through the understanding; as by manure; the economic use of fire, wind, water, and the mariner's needle; steam, coal, chemical agriculture; the repairs of the human body by the dentist and the surgeon. This is such a resumption of power, as if a banished king should buy his territories inch by inch, instead of vaulting at once into his throne. Meantime, in the thick darkness, there are not wanting gleams of a better light,—occasional examples of the action of man upon nature with his entire force,—with reason as well as understanding. Such examples are; the traditions of miracles in the earliest antiquity of all nations; the history of Jesus Christ; the achievements of a principle, as in religious and political revolutions, and in the abolition of the Slave-trade; the miracles of enthusiasm, as those reported of Swedenborg, Hohenlohe, and the Shakers; many obscure and yet contested facts, now arranged under the name of Animal Magnetism; prayer; eloquence; self-healing; and the wisdom of children. These are examples of Reason's momentary grasp of the sceptre; the exertions of a power which exists not in time or space, but an instantaneous in-streaming causing power. The difference between the actual and the ideal force of man is happily figured by the schoolmen, in saying, that the knowledge of man is an evening knowledge, vespertina cognitio, but that of God is a morning knowledge, matutina cognitio.
At present, humanity brings only half its strength to nature. People work on the world through practical understanding alone. They live in it and master it through petty calculations of gain. Even those who work hardest in it are only half-developed human beings. Their arms are strong and their digestion good, but their minds are dulled, and they are selfish savages. Their relationship with nature, and their power over it, comes through practical understanding. They use manure and make efficient use of fire, wind, water, and the compass. They use steam, coal, and chemical farming methods. Dentists and surgeons repair the human body. Regaining power this way is like an exiled king buying back his lands inch by inch. Instead, he could leap straight onto his throne. Meanwhile, even in this deep darkness, flashes of a better light appear. There are occasional examples of people acting on nature with their full strength, using reason as well as practical understanding. These include traditions of miracles from the earliest history of all nations, and the history of Jesus Christ. They include what a principle can achieve, as in religious and political revolutions and the abolition of the slave trade. They include miracles of spiritual fervor, such as those reported of Swedenborg, Hohenlohe, and the Shakers. They include many little-known and still disputed phenomena, now grouped under the name Animal Magnetism. They also include prayer, eloquence, self-healing, and the wisdom of children. These are moments when Reason briefly takes hold of the scepter. They are acts of a power that exists outside time and space, flowing in instantly to bring things about. Medieval scholars aptly illustrated the difference between humanity’s actual power and its ideal power. They called human knowledge an evening knowledge, vespertina cognitio, but God’s knowledge a morning knowledge, matutina cognitio.
The problem of restoring to the world original and eternal beauty, is solved by the redemption of the soul. The ruin or the blank, that we see when we look at nature, is in our own eye. The axis of vision is not coincident with the axis of things, and so they appear not transparent but opake. The reason why the world lacks unity, and lies broken and in heaps, is, because man is disunited with himself. He cannot be a naturalist, until he satisfies all the demands of the spirit. Love is as much its demand, as perception. Indeed, neither can be perfect without the other. In the uttermost meaning of the words, thought is devout, and devotion is thought. Deep calls unto deep. But in actual life, the marriage is not celebrated. There are innocent men who worship God after the tradition of their fathers, but their sense of duty has not yet extended to the use of all their faculties. And there are patient naturalists, but they freeze their subject under the wintry light of the understanding. Is not prayer also a study of truth,—a sally of the soul into the unfound infinite? No man ever prayed heartily, without learning something. But when a faithful thinker, resolute to detach every object from personal relations, and see it in the light of thought, shall, at the same time, kindle science with the fire of the holiest affections, then will God go forth anew into the creation.
The world’s original and eternal beauty can be restored by redeeming the soul. The ruin or emptiness we see in nature lies in our own eyes. Our vision does not align with things as they truly are. So they appear opaque rather than transparent. The world lacks unity and lies broken in heaps because human beings are divided within themselves. No one can truly study nature until they meet all the spirit’s demands. The spirit demands love as much as perception. Indeed, neither can be perfect without the other. In the deepest sense, thought is devotion, and devotion is thought. Depth calls to depth. But in everyday life, the two remain unmarried. There are innocent people who worship God according to their ancestors’ traditions. Yet their sense of duty does not extend to using all their faculties. There are also patient naturalists, but they freeze their subject in the wintry light of the intellect. Isn’t prayer also a study of truth, an expedition of the soul into the unexplored infinite? No one has ever prayed wholeheartedly without learning something. But a faithful thinker will seek to separate every object from its personal associations and see it through thought. When that thinker also lights science with the fire of the holiest affections, God will emerge anew in creation.
It will not need, when the mind is prepared for study, to search for objects. The invariable mark of wisdom is to see the miraculous in the common. What is a day? What is a year? What is summer? What is woman? What is a child? What is sleep? To our blindness, these things seem unaffecting. We make fables to hide the baldness of the fact and conform it, as we say, to the higher law of the mind. But when the fact is seen under the light of an idea, the gaudy fable fades and shrivels. We behold the real higher law. To the wise, therefore, a fact is true poetry, and the most beautiful of fables. These wonders are brought to our own door. You also are a man. Man and woman, and their social life, poverty, labor, sleep, fear, fortune, are known to you. Learn that none of these things is superficial, but that each phenomenon has its roots in the faculties and affections of the mind. Whilst the abstract question occupies your intellect, nature brings it in the concrete to be solved by your hands. It were a wise inquiry for the closet, to compare, point by point, especially at remarkable crises in life, our daily history, with the rise and progress of ideas in the mind.
When the mind is ready to study, it will not need to search for things to examine. The unfailing sign of wisdom is seeing the miraculous in the ordinary. What is a day? What is a year? What is summer? What is a woman? What is a child? What is sleep? In our blindness, these things seem unable to move us. We invent stories to hide the plainness of facts. We make them fit what we call the mind’s higher law. But when we see a fact in the light of an idea, the showy story fades and shrivels. We see the true higher law. To the wise, then, a fact is true poetry and the most beautiful of stories. These wonders come right to our door. You, too, are human. You know men and women and their social lives, poverty, work, sleep, fear, and fortune. Learn that none of these things is superficial. Each has its roots in the mind’s abilities and feelings. While your intellect considers an abstract question, nature gives it concrete form for your hands to solve. A wise subject for private reflection would be to compare our daily lives with how ideas arise and develop within us. We could compare them point by point, especially at major turning points in life.
So shall we come to look at the world with new eyes. It shall answer the endless inquiry of the intellect,—What is truth? and of the affections,—What is good? by yielding itself passive to the educated Will. Then shall come to pass what my poet said; 'Nature is not fixed but fluid. Spirit alters, moulds, makes it. The immobility or bruteness of nature, is the absence of spirit; to pure spirit, it is fluid, it is volatile, it is obedient. Every spirit builds itself a house; and beyond its house a world; and beyond its world, a heaven. Know then, that the world exists for you. For you is the phenomenon perfect. What we are, that only can we see. All that Adam had, all that Caesar could, you have and can do. Adam called his house, heaven and earth; Caesar called his house, Rome; you perhaps call yours, a cobler's trade; a hundred acres of ploughed land; or a scholar's garret. Yet line for line and point for point, your dominion is as great as theirs, though without fine names. Build, therefore, your own world. As fast as you conform your life to the pure idea in your mind, that will unfold its great proportions. A correspondent revolution in things will attend the influx of the spirit. So fast will disagreeable appearances, swine, spiders, snakes, pests, madhouses, prisons, enemies, vanish; they are temporary and shall be no more seen. The sordor and filths of nature, the sun shall dry up, and the wind exhale. As when the summer comes from the south; the snow-banks melt, and the face of the earth becomes green before it, so shall the advancing spirit create its ornaments along its path, and carry with it the beauty it visits, and the song which enchants it; it shall draw beautiful faces, warm hearts, wise discourse, and heroic acts, around its way, until evil is no more seen. The kingdom of man over nature, which cometh not with observation,—a dominion such as now is beyond his dream of God,—he shall enter without more wonder than the blind man feels who is gradually restored to perfect sight.'
So we will come to see the world with new eyes. It will answer the endless questions of the mind, “What is true?” and of the heart, “What is good?” It will do this by yielding to the trained will. Then what my poet said will come true. 'Nature is not fixed but fluid. Spirit changes it, shapes it, creates it. Nature seems rigid or mindless when spirit is absent. To pure spirit, nature is fluid, changeable, and obedient. Every spirit builds itself a house, beyond its house a world, and beyond its world a heaven. Know, then, that the world exists for you. For you, the world as it appears is perfect. We can see only what we ourselves are. All that Adam had, you have. All that Caesar could do, you can do. Adam called his house heaven and earth. Caesar called his house Rome. Perhaps you call yours a shoemaker’s trade, a hundred acres of plowed land, or a scholar’s attic room. Yet in every detail, your domain is as great as theirs, though it lacks grand names. Build your own world, then. As you bring your life into harmony with the pure idea in your mind, that world will reveal its grandeur. As spirit flows in, a matching transformation will take place in things. At the same pace, unpleasant sights, pigs, spiders, snakes, pests, asylums, prisons, and enemies will vanish. They are temporary and will no longer be seen. The sun will dry up nature’s grime and filth, and the wind will carry them away. When summer comes from the south, the snowbanks melt and the earth turns green before it. In the same way, the advancing spirit will create beauty along its path. It will carry with it the beauty it encounters and the song that enchants it. It will gather beautiful faces, warm hearts, wise conversation, and heroic deeds along its way, until evil is seen no more. Humanity will enter its kingdom over nature, a rule that does not come through visible signs. Such power now lies beyond even humanity’s dreams of God. Yet entering it will seem no more surprising than gradually regaining perfect sight seems to a blind man.'