textfiles/etext/AUTHORS/EMERSON/emerson-nature-237.txt

        Nature; Adresses, and Lectures
        by Ralph Waldo Emerson
 
 
 
        NATURE
 
        ----
 
        A subtle chain of countless rings
        The next unto the farthest brings;
        The eye reads omens where it goes,
        And speaks all languages the rose;
        And, striving to be man, the worm
        Mounts through all the spires of form.

 
 
 
        Introduction

        Our age is retrospective.  It builds the sepulchres of the
fathers.  It writes biographies, histories, and criticism.  The
foregoing generations beheld God and nature face to face; we, through
their eyes.  Why should not we also enjoy an original relation to the
universe?  Why should not we have a poetry and philosophy of insight
and not of tradition, and a religion by revelation to us, and not the
history of theirs?  Embosomed for a season in nature, whose floods of
life stream around and through us, and invite us by the powers they
supply, to action proportioned to nature, why should we grope among
the dry bones of the past, or put the living generation into
masquerade out of its faded wardrobe?  The sun shines to-day also.
There is more wool and flax in the fields.  There are new lands, new
men, new thoughts.  Let us demand our own works and laws and worship.

        Undoubtedly we have no questions to ask which are unanswerable.
We must trust the perfection of the creation so far, as to believe
that whatever curiosity the order of things has awakened in our
minds, the order of things can satisfy.  Every man's condition is a
solution in hieroglyphic to those inquiries he would put.  He acts it
as life, before he apprehends it as truth.  In like manner, nature is
already, in its forms and tendencies, describing its own design.  Let
us interrogate the great apparition, that shines so peacefully around
us.  Let us inquire, to what end is nature?

        All science has one aim, namely, to find a theory of nature.
We have theories of races and of functions, but scarcely yet a remote
approach to an idea of creation.  We are now so far from the road to
truth, that religious teachers dispute and hate each other, and
speculative men are esteemed unsound and frivolous.  But to a sound
judgment, the most abstract truth is the most practical.  Whenever a
true theory appears, it will be its own evidence.  Its test is, that
it will explain all phenomena.  Now many are thought not only
unexplained but inexplicable; as language, sleep, madness, dreams,
beasts, sex.

 
        Philosophically considered, the universe is composed of Nature
and the Soul.  Strictly speaking, therefore, all that is separate
from us, all which Philosophy distinguishes as the NOT ME, that is,
both nature and art, all other men and my own body, must be ranked
under this name, NATURE.  In enumerating the values of nature and
casting up their sum, I shall use the word in both senses; -- in its
common and in its philosophical import.  In inquiries so general as
our present one, the inaccuracy is not material; no confusion of
thought will occur.  _Nature_, in the common sense, refers to
essences unchanged by man; space, the air, the river, the leaf.
_Art_ is applied to the mixture of his will with the same things, as
in a house, a canal, a statue, a picture.  But his operations taken
together are so insignificant, a little chipping, baking, patching,
and washing, that in an impression so grand as that of the world on
the human mind, they do not vary the result.

 
 

                       _Chapter I_ NATURE

        To go into solitude, a man needs to retire as much from his
chamber as from society.  I am not solitary whilst I read and write,
though nobody is with me.  But if a man would be alone, let him look
at the stars.  The rays that come from those heavenly worlds, will
separate between him and what he touches.  One might think the
atmosphere was made transparent with this design, to give man, in the
heavenly bodies, the perpetual presence of the sublime.  Seen in the
streets of cities, how great they are!  If the stars should appear
one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore; and
preserve for many generations the remembrance of the city of God
which had been shown!  But every night come out these envoys of
beauty, and light the universe with their admonishing smile.

        The stars awaken a certain reverence, because though always
present, they are inaccessible; but all natural objects make a
kindred impression, when the mind is open to their influence.  Nature
never wears a mean appearance.  Neither does the wisest man extort
her secret, and lose his curiosity by finding out all her perfection.
Nature never became a toy to a wise spirit.  The flowers, the
animals, the mountains, reflected the wisdom of his best hour, as
much as they had delighted the simplicity of his childhood.

        When we speak of nature in this manner, we have a distinct but
most poetical sense in the mind.  We mean the integrity of impression
made by manifold natural objects.  It is this which distinguishes the
stick of timber of the wood-cutter, from the tree of the poet.  The
charming landscape which I saw this morning, is indubitably made up
of some twenty or thirty farms.  Miller owns this field, Locke that,
and Manning the woodland beyond.  But none of them owns the
landscape.  There is a property in the horizon which no man has but
he whose eye can integrate all the parts, that is, the poet.  This is
the best part of these men's farms, yet to this their warranty-deeds
give no title.

 
        To speak truly, few adult persons can see nature.  Most persons
do not see the sun.  At least they have a very superficial seeing.
The sun illuminates only the eye of the man, but shines into the eye
and the heart of the child.  The lover of nature is he whose inward
and outward senses are still truly adjusted to each other; who has
retained the spirit of infancy even into the era of manhood.  His
intercourse with heaven and earth, becomes part of his daily food.
In the presence of nature, a wild delight runs through the man, in
spite of real sorrows.  Nature says, -- he is my creature, and maugre
all his impertinent griefs, he shall be glad with me.  Not the sun or
the summer alone, but every hour and season yields its tribute of
delight; for every hour and change corresponds to and authorizes a
different state of the mind, from breathless noon to grimmest
midnight.  Nature is a setting that fits equally well a comic or a
mourning piece.  In good health, the air is a cordial of incredible
virtue.  Crossing a bare common, in snow puddles, at twilight, under
a clouded sky, without having in my thoughts any occurrence of
special good fortune, I have enjoyed a perfect exhilaration.  I am
glad to the brink of fear.  In the woods too, a man casts off his
years, as the snake his slough, and at what period soever of life, is
always a child.  In the woods, is perpetual youth.  Within these
plantations of God, a decorum and sanctity reign, a perennial
festival is dressed, and the guest sees not how he should tire of
them in a thousand years.  In the woods, we return to reason and
faith.  There I feel that nothing can befall me in life, -- no
disgrace, no calamity, (leaving me my eyes,) which nature cannot
repair.  Standing on the bare ground, -- my head bathed by the blithe
air, and uplifted into infinite space, -- all mean egotism vanishes.
I become a transparent eye-ball; I am nothing; I see all; the
currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part or
particle of God.  The name of the nearest friend sounds then foreign
and accidental: to be brothers, to be acquaintances, -- master or
servant, is then a trifle and a disturbance.  I am the lover of
uncontained and immortal beauty.  In the wilderness, I find something
more dear and connate than in streets or villages.  In the tranquil
landscape, and especially in the distant line of the horizon, man
beholds somewhat as beautiful as his own nature.

 
        The greatest delight which the fields and woods minister, is
the suggestion of an occult relation between man and the vegetable.
I am not alone and unacknowledged.  They nod to me, and I to them.
The waving of the boughs in the storm, is new to me and old.  It
takes me by surprise, and yet is not unknown.  Its effect is like
that of a higher thought or a better emotion coming over me, when I
deemed I was thinking justly or doing right.

        Yet it is certain that the power to produce this delight, does
not reside in nature, but in man, or in a harmony of both.  It is
necessary to use these pleasures with great temperance.  For, nature
is not always tricked in holiday attire, but the same scene which
yesterday breathed perfume and glittered as for the frolic of the
nymphs, is overspread with melancholy today.  Nature always wears the
colors of the spirit.  To a man laboring under calamity, the heat of
his own fire hath sadness in it.  Then, there is a kind of contempt
of the landscape felt by him who has just lost by death a dear
friend.  The sky is less grand as it shuts down over less worth in
the population.

 
 

                       _Chapter II_ COMMODITY

        Whoever considers the final cause of the world, will discern a
multitude of usesthat result.  They all admit of being thrown into
one of the following classes; Commodity; Beauty; Language; and
Discipline.

        Under the general name of Commodity, I rank all those
advantages which our senses owe to nature.  This, of course, is a
benefit which is temporary and mediate, not ultimate, like its
service to the soul.  Yet although low, it is perfect in its kind,
and is the only use of nature which all men apprehend.  The misery of
man appears like childish petulance, when we explore the steady and
prodigal provision that has been made for his support and delight on
this green ball which floats him through the heavens.  What angels
invented these splendid ornaments, these rich conveniences, this
ocean of air above, this ocean of water beneath, this firmament of
earth between? this zodiac of lights, this tent of dropping clouds,
this striped coat of climates, this fourfold year?  Beasts, fire,
water, stones, and corn serve him.  The field is at once his floor,
his work-yard, his play-ground, his garden, and his bed.

        "More servants wait on man
        Than he 'll take notice of." ------

        Nature, in its ministry to man, is not only the material, but
is also the process and the result.  All the parts incessantly work
into each other's hands for the profit of man.  The wind sows the
seed; the sun evaporates the sea; the wind blows the vapor to the
field; the ice, on the other side of the planet, condenses rain on
this; the rain feeds the plant; the plant feeds the animal; and thus
the endless circulations of the divine charity nourish man.

        The useful arts are reproductions or new combinations by the
wit of man, of the same natural benefactors.  He no longer waits for
favoring gales, but by means of steam, he realizes the fable of
Aeolus's bag, and carries the two and thirty winds in the boiler of
his boat.  To diminish friction, he paves the road with iron bars,
and, mounting a coach with a ship-load of men, animals, and
merchandise behind him, he darts through the country, from town to
town, like an eagle or a swallow through the air.  By the aggregate
of these aids, how is the face of the world changed, from the era of
Noah to that of Napoleon!  The private poor man hath cities, ships,
canals, bridges, built for him.  He goes to the post-office, and the
human race run on his errands; to the book-shop, and the human race
read and write of all that happens, for him; to the court-house, and
nations repair his wrongs.  He sets his house upon the road, and the
human race go forth every morning, and shovel out the snow, and cut a
path for him.

        But there is no need of specifying particulars in this class of
uses.  The catalogue is endless, and the examples so obvious, that I
shall leave them to the reader's reflection, with the general remark,
that this mercenary benefit is one which has respect to a farther
good.  A man is fed, not that he may be fed, but that he may work.

 
 

                       _Chapter III_ BEAUTY

        A nobler want of man is served by nature, namely, the love of
Beauty.

        The ancient Greeks called the world {kosmos}, beauty.  Such is
the constitution of all things, or such the plastic power of the
human eye, that the primary forms, as the sky, the mountain, the
tree, the animal, give us a delight _in and for themselves_; a
pleasure arising from outline, color, motion, and grouping.  This
seems partly owing to the eye itself.  The eye is the best of
artists.  By the mutual action of its structure and of the laws of
light, perspective is produced, which integrates every mass of
objects, of what character soever, into a well colored and shaded
globe, so that where the particular objects are mean and unaffecting,
the landscape which they compose, is round and symmetrical.  And as
the eye is the best composer, so light is the first of painters.
There is no object so foul that intense light will not make
beautiful.  And the stimulus it affords to the sense, and a sort of
infinitude which it hath, like space and time, make all matter gay.
Even the corpse has its own beauty.  But besides this general grace
diffused over nature, almost all the individual forms are agreeable
to the eye, as is proved by our endless imitations of some of them,
as the acorn, the grape, the pine-cone, the wheat-ear, the egg, the
wings and forms of most birds, the lion's claw, the serpent, the
butterfly, sea-shells, flames, clouds, buds, leaves, and the forms of
many trees, as the palm.

        For better consideration, we may distribute the aspects of
Beauty in a threefold manner.

        1. First, the simple perception of natural forms is a delight.
The influence of the forms and actions in nature, is so needful to
man, that, in its lowest functions, it seems to lie on the confines
of commodity and beauty.  To the body and mind which have been
cramped by noxious work or company, nature is medicinal and restores
their tone.  The tradesman, the attorney comes out of the din and
craft of the street, and sees the sky and the woods, and is a man
again.  In their eternal calm, he finds himself.  The health of the
eye seems to demand a horizon.  We are never tired, so long as we can
see far enough.

        But in other hours, Nature satisfies by its loveliness, and
without any mixture of corporeal benefit.  I see the spectacle of
morning from the hill-top over against my house, from day-break to
sun-rise, with emotions which an angel might share.  The long slender
bars of cloud float like fishes in the sea of crimson light.  From
the earth, as a shore, I look out into that silent sea.  I seem to
partake its rapid transformations: the active enchantment reaches my
dust, and I dilate and conspire with the morning wind.  How does
Nature deify us with a few and cheap elements!  Give me health and a
day, and I will make the pomp of emperors ridiculous.  The dawn is my
Assyria; the sun-set and moon-rise my Paphos, and unimaginable realms
of faerie; broad noon shall be my England of the senses and the
understanding; the night shall be my Germany of mystic philosophy and
dreams.

        Not less excellent, except for our less susceptibility in the
afternoon, was the charm, last evening, of a January sunset.  The
western clouds divided and subdivided themselves into pink flakes
modulated with tints of unspeakable softness; and the air had so much
life and sweetness, that it was a pain to come within doors.  What
was it that nature would say?  Was there no meaning in the live
repose of the valley behind the mill, and which Homer or Shakspeare
could not reform for me in words?  The leafless trees become spires
of flame in the sunset, with the blue east for their back-ground, and
the stars of the dead calices of flowers, and every withered stem and
stubble rimed with frost, contribute something to the mute music.

        The inhabitants of cities suppose that the country landscape is
pleasant only half the year.  I please myself with the graces of the
winter scenery, and believe that we are as much touched by it as by
the genial influences of summer.  To the attentive eye, each moment
of the year has its own beauty, and in the same field, it beholds,
every hour, a picture which was never seen before, and which shall
never be seen again.  The heavens change every moment, and reflect
their glory or gloom on the plains beneath.  The state of the crop in
the surrounding farms alters the expression of the earth from week to
week.  The succession of native plants in the pastures and roadsides,
which makes the silent clock by which time tells the summer hours,
will make even the divisions of the day sensible to a keen observer.
The tribes of birds and insects, like the plants punctual to their
time, follow each other, and the year has room for all.  By
water-courses, the variety is greater.  In July, the blue pontederia
or pickerel-weed blooms in large beds in the shallow parts of our
pleasant river, and swarms with yellow butterflies in continual
motion.  Art cannot rival this pomp of purple and gold.  Indeed the
river is a perpetual gala, and boasts each month a new ornament.

        But this beauty of Nature which is seen and felt as beauty, is
the least part.  The shows of day, the dewy morning, the rainbow,
mountains, orchards in blossom, stars, moonlight, shadows in still
water, and the like, if too eagerly hunted, become shows merely, and
mock us with their unreality.  Go out of the house to see the moon,
and 't is mere tinsel; it will not please as when its light shines
upon your necessary journey.  The beauty that shimmers in the yellow
afternoons of October, who ever could clutch it?  Go forth to find
it, and it is gone: 't is only a mirage as you look from the windows
of diligence.

        2. The presence of a higher, namely, of the spiritual element
is essential to its perfection.  The high and divine beauty which can
be loved without effeminacy, is that which is found in combination
with the human will.  Beauty is the mark God sets upon virtue.  Every
natural action is graceful.  Every heroic act is also decent, and
causes the place and the bystanders to shine.  We are taught by great
actions that the universe is the property of every individual in it.
Every rational creature has all nature for his dowry and estate.  It
is his, if he will.  He may divest himself of it; he may creep into a
corner, and abdicate his kingdom, as most men do, but he is entitled
to the world by his constitution.  In proportion to the energy of his
thought and will, he takes up the world into himself.  "All those
things for which men plough, build, or sail, obey virtue;" said
Sallust.  "The winds and waves," said Gibbon, "are always on the side
of the ablest navigators." So are the sun and moon and all the stars
of heaven.  When a noble act is done, -- perchance in a scene of
great natural beauty; when Leonidas and his three hundred martyrs
consume one day in dying, and the sun and moon come each and look at
them once in the steep defile of Thermopylae; when Arnold Winkelried,
in the high Alps, under the shadow of the avalanche, gathers in his
side a sheaf of Austrian spears to break the line for his comrades;
are not these heroes entitled to add the beauty of the scene to the
beauty of the deed?  When the bark of Columbus nears the shore of
America; -- before it, the beach lined with savages, fleeing out of
all their huts of cane; the sea behind; and the purple mountains of
the Indian Archipelago around, can we separate the man from the
living picture?  Does not the New World clothe his form with her
palm-groves and savannahs as fit drapery?  Ever does natural beauty
steal in like air, and envelope great actions.  When Sir Harry Vane
was dragged up the Tower-hill, sitting on a sled, to suffer death, as
the champion of the English laws, one of the multitude cried out to
him, "You never sate on so glorious a seat." Charles II., to
intimidate the citizens of London, caused the patriot Lord Russel to
be drawn in an open coach, through the principal streets of the city,
on his way to the scaffold.  "But," his biographer says, "the
multitude imagined they saw liberty and virtue sitting by his side."
In private places, among sordid objects, an act of truth or heroism
seems at once to draw to itself the sky as its temple, the sun as its
candle.  Nature stretcheth out her arms to embrace man, only let his
thoughts be of equal greatness.  Willingly does she follow his steps
with the rose and the violet, and bend her lines of grandeur and
grace to the decoration of her darling child.  Only let his thoughts
be of equal scope, and the frame will suit the picture.  A virtuous
man is in unison with her works, and makes the central figure of the
visible sphere.  Homer, Pindar, Socrates, Phocion, associate
themselves fitly in our memory with the geography and climate of
Greece.  The visible heavens and earth sympathize with Jesus.  And in
common life, whosoever has seen a person of powerful character and
happy genius, will have remarked how easily he took all things along
with him, -- the persons, the opinions, and the day, and nature
became ancillary to a man.

        3. There is still another aspect under which the beauty of the
world may be viewed, namely, as it become s an object of the
intellect.  Beside the relation of things to virtue, they have a
relation to thought.  The intellect searches out the absolute order
of things as they stand in the mind of God, and without the colors of
affection.  The intellectual and the active powers seem to succeed
each other, and the exclusive activity of the one, generates the
exclusive activity of the other.  There is something unfriendly in
each to the other, but they are like the alternate periods of feeding
and working in animals; each prepares and will be followed by the
other.  Therefore does beauty, which, in relation to actions, as we
have seen, comes unsought, and comes because it is unsought, remain
for the apprehension and pursuit of the intellect; and then again, in
its turn, of the active power.  Nothing divine dies.  All good is
eternally reproductive.  The beauty of nature reforms itself in the
mind, and not for barren contemplation, but for new creation.

        All men are in some degree impressed by the face of the world;
some men even to delight.  This love of beauty is Taste.  Others have
the same love in such excess, that, not content with admiring, they
seek to embody it in new forms.  The creation of beauty is Art.

        The production of a work of art throws a light upon the mystery
of humanity.  A work of art is an abstract or epitome of the world.
It is the result or expression of nature, in miniature.  For,
although the works of nature are innumerable and all different, the
result or the expression of them all is similar and single.  Nature
is a sea of forms radically alike and even unique.  A leaf, a
sun-beam, a landscape, the ocean, make an analogous impression on the
mind.  What is common to them all, -- that perfectness and harmony,
is beauty.  The standard of beauty is the entire circuit of natural
forms, -- the totality of nature; which the Italians expressed by
defining beauty "il piu nell' uno." Nothing is quite beautiful alone:
nothing but is beautiful in the whole.  A single object is only so
far beautiful as it suggests this universal grace.  The poet, the
painter, the sculptor, the musician, the architect, seek each to
concentrate this radiance of the world on one point, and each in his
several work to satisfy the love of beauty which stimulates him to
produce.  Thus is Art, a nature passed through the alembic of man.
Thus in art, does nature work through the will of a man filled with
the beauty of her first works.

        The world thus exists to the soul to satisfy the desire of
beauty.  This element I call an ultimate end.  No reason can be asked
or given why the soul seeks beauty.  Beauty, in its largest and
profoundest sense, is one expression for the universe.  God is the
all-fair.  Truth, and goodness, and beauty, are but different faces
of the same All.  But beauty in nature is not ultimate.  It is the
herald of inward and eternal beauty, and is not alone a solid and
satisfactory good.  It must stand as a part, and not as yet the last
or highest expression of the final cause of Nature.

 
 

                       _Chapter IV_ LANGUAGE

        Language is a third use which Nature subserves to man.  Nature
is the vehble, and threefold degree.

        1. Words are signs of natural facts.

        2. Particular natural facts are symbols of particular spiritual
facts.

        3. Nature is the symbol of 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.

        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.

        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.

        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.

        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.

        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.

        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.

        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.

        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.

        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.

        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;

        ------ "Can these things be,
        And overcome us like a summer's cloud,
        Without our special 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."

        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.

        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.

 
 

                       _Chapter V_ DISCIPLINE

        In view of the significance of nature, we arrive at once at a
new This use of the world includes the preceding uses, as parts of
itself.

        Space, time, society, labor, climate, food, locomotion, the
animals, the mechanical forces, give us sincerest lessons, day by
day, whose meaning is unlimited.  They educate both the Understanding
and the Reason.  Every property of matter is a school for the
understanding, -- its solidity or resistance, its inertia, its
extension, its figure, its divisibility.  The understanding adds,
divides, combines, measures, and finds nutriment and room for its
activity in this worthy scene.  Meantime, Reason transfers all these
lessons into its own world of thought, by perceiving the analogy that
marries Matter and Mind.

        1. Nature is a discipline of the understanding in intellectual
truths.  Our dealing with sensible objects is a constant exercise in
the necessary lessons of difference, of likeness, of order, of being
and seeming, of progressive arrangement; of ascent from particular to
general; of combination to one end of manifold forces.  Proportioned
to the importance of the organ to be formed, is the extreme care with
which its tuition is provided, -- a care pretermitted in no single
case.  What tedious training, day after day, year after year, never
ending, to form the common sense; what continual reproduction of
annoyances, inconveniences, dilemmas; what rejoicing over us of
little men; what disputing of prices, what reckonings of interest, --
and all to form the Hand of the mind; -- to instruct us that "good
thoughts are no better than good dreams, unless they be executed!"

        The same good office is performed by Property and its filial
systems of debt and credit.  Debt, grinding debt, whose iron face the
widow, the orphan, and the sons of genius fear and hate; -- debt,
which consumes so much time, which so cripples and disheartens a
great spirit with cares that seem so base, is a preceptor whose
lessons cannot be forgone, and is needed most by those who suffer
from it most.  Moreover, property, which has been well compared to
snow, -- "if it fall level to-day, it will be blown into drifts
to-morrow," -- is the surface action of internal machinery, like the
index on the face of a clock.  Whilst now it is the gymnastics of the
understanding, it is hiving in the foresight of the spirit,
experience in profounder laws.

        The whole character and fortune of the individual are affected
by the least inequalities in the culture of the understanding; for
example, in the perception of differences.  Therefore is Space, and
therefore Time, that man may know that things are not huddled and
lumped, but sundered and individual.  A bell and a plough have each
their use, and neither can do the office of the other.  Water is good
to drink, coal to burn, wool to wear; but wool cannot be drunk, nor
water spun, nor coal eaten.  The wise man shows his wisdom in
separation, in gradation, and his scale of creatures and of merits is
as wide as nature.  The foolish have no range in their scale, but
suppose every man is as every other man.  What is not good they call
the worst, and what is not hateful, they call the best.

        In like manner, what good heed, nature forms in us!  She
pardons no mistakes.  Her yea is yea, and her nay, nay.

        The first steps in Agriculture, Astronomy, Zoology, (those
first steps which the farmer, the hunter, and the sailor take,) teach
that nature's dice are always loaded; that in her heaps and rubbish
are concealed sure and useful results.

        How calmly and genially the mind apprehends one after another
the laws of physics!  What noble emotions dilate the mortal as he
enters into the counsels of the creation, and feels by knowledge the
privilege to BE!  His insight refines him.  The beauty of nature
shines in his own breast.  Man is greater that he can see this, and
the universe less, because Time and Space relations vanish as laws
are known.

        Here again we are impressed and even daunted by the immense
Universe to be explored.  "What we know, is a point to what we do not
know." Open any recent journal of science, and weigh the problems
suggested concerning Light, Heat, Electricity, Magnetism, Physiology,
Geology, and judge whether the interest of natural science is likely
to be soon exhausted.

        Passing by many particulars of the discipline of nature, we
must not omit to specify two.

        The exercise of the Will or the lesson of power is taught in
every event.  From the child's successive possession of his several
senses up to the hour when he saith, "Thy will be done!" he is
learning the secret, that he can reduce under his will, not only
particular events, but great classes, nay the whole series of events,
and so conform all facts to his character.  Nature is thoroughly
mediate.  It is made to serve.  It receives the dominion of man as
meekly as the ass on which the Saviour rode.  It offers all its
kingdoms to man as the raw material which he may mould into what is
useful.  Man is never weary of working it up.  He forges the subtile
and delicate air into wise and melodious words, and gives them wing
as angels of persuasion and command.  One after another, his
victorious thought comes up with and reduces all things, until the
world becomes, at last, only a realized will, -- the double of the
man.

        2. Sensible objects conform to the premonitions of Reason and
reflect the conscience.  All things are moral; and in their boundless
changes have an unceasing reference to spiritual nature.  Therefore
is nature glorious with form, color, and motion, that every globe in
the remotest heaven; every chemical change from the rudest crystal up
to the laws of life; every change of vegetation from the first
principle of growth in the eye of a leaf, to the tropical forest and
antediluvian coal-mine; every animal function from the sponge up to
Hercules, shall hint or thunder to man the laws of right and wrong,
and echo the Ten Commandments.  Therefore is nature ever the ally of
Religion: lends all her pomp and riches to the religious sentiment.
Prophet and priest, David, Isaiah, Jesus, have drawn deeply from this
source.  This ethical character so penetrates the bone and marrow of
nature, as to seem the end for which it was made.  Whatever private
purpose is answered by any member or part, this is its public and
universal function, and is never omitted.  Nothing in nature is
exhausted in its first use.  When a thing has served an end to the
uttermost, it is wholly new for an ulterior service.  In God, every
end is converted into a new means.  Thus the use of commodity,
regarded by itself, is mean and squalid.  But it is to the mind an
education in the doctrine of Use, namely, that a thing is good only
so far as it serves; that a conspiring of parts and efforts to the
production of an end, is essential to any being.  The first and gross
manifestation of this truth, is our inevitable and hated training in
values and wants, in corn and meat.

        It has already been illustrated, that every natural process is
a version of a moral sentence.  The moral law lies at the centre of
nature and radiates to the circumference.  It is the pith and marrow
of every substance, every relation, and every process.  All things
with which we deal, preach to us.  What is a farm but a mute gospel?
The chaff and the wheat, weeds and plants, blight, rain, insects,
sun, -- it is a sacred emblem from the first furrow of spring to the
last stack which the snow of winter overtakes in the fields.  But the
sailor, the shepherd, the miner, the merchant, in their several
resorts, have each an experience precisely parallel, and leading to
the same conclusion: because all organizations are radically alike.
Nor can it be doubted that this moral sentiment which thus scents the
air, grows in the grain, and impregnates the waters of the world, is
caught by man and sinks into his soul.  The moral influence of nature
upon every individual is that amount of truth which it illustrates to
him.  Who can estimate this?  Who can guess how much firmness the
sea-beaten rock has taught the fisherman? how much tranquillity has
been reflected to man from the azure sky, over whose unspotted deeps
the winds forevermore drive flocks of stormy clouds, and leave no
wrinkle or stain? how much industry and providence and affection we
have caught from the pantomime of brutes?  What a searching preacher
of self-command is the varying phenomenon of Health!

        Herein is especially apprehended the unity of Nature, -- the
unity in variety, -- which meets us everywhere.  All the endless
variety of things make an identical impression.  Xenophanes
complained in his old age, that, look where he would, all things
hastened back to Unity.  He was weary of seeing the same entity in
the tedious variety of forms.  The fable of Proteus has a cordial
truth.  A leaf, a drop, a crystal, a moment of time is related to the
whole, and partakes of the perfection of the whole.  Each particle is
a microcosm, and faithfully renders the likeness of the world.

        Not only resemblances exist in things whose analogy is obvious,
as when we detect the type of the human hand in the flipper of the
fossil saurus, but also in objects wherein there is great superficial
unlikeness.  Thus architecture is called "frozen music," by De Stael
and Goethe.  Vitruvius thought an architect should be a musician.  "A
Gothic church," said Coleridge, "is a petrified religion." Michael
Angelo maintained, that, to an architect, a knowledge of anatomy is
essential.  In Haydn's oratorios, the notes present to the
imagination not only motions, as, of the snake, the stag, and the
elephant, but colors also; as the green grass.  The law of harmonic
sounds reappears in the harmonic colors.  The granite is differenced
in its laws only by the more or less of heat, from the river that
wears it away.  The river, as it flows, resembles the air that flows
over it; the air resembles the light which traverses it with more
subtile currents; the light resembles the heat which rides with it
through Space.  Each creature is only a modification of the other;
the likeness in them is more than the difference, and their radical
law is one and the same.  A rule of one art, or a law of one
organization, holds true throughout nature.  So intimate is this
Unity, that, it is easily seen, it lies under the undermost garment
of nature, and betrays its source in Universal Spirit.  For, it
pervades Thought also.  Every universal truth which we express in
words, implies or supposes every other truth.  _Omne verum vero
consonat_.  It is like a great circle on a sphere, comprising all
possible circles; which, however, may be drawn, and comprise it, in
like manner.  Every such truth is the absolute Ens seen from one
side.  But it has innumerable sides.

        The central Unity is still more conspicuous in actions.  Words
are finite organs of the infinite mind.  They cannot cover the
dimensions of what is in truth.  They break, chop, and impoverish it.
An action is the perfection and publication of thought.  A right
action seems to fill the eye, and to be related to all nature.  "The
wise man, in doing one thing, does all; or, in the one thing he does
rightly, he sees the likeness of all which is done rightly."

        Words and actions are not the attributes of brute nature.  They
introduce us to the human form, of which all other organizations
appear to be degradations.  When this appears among so many that
surround it, the spirit prefers it to all others.  It says, `From
such as this, have I drawn joy and knowledge; in such as this, have I
found and beheld myself; I will speak to it; it can speak again; it
can yield me thought already formed and alive.' In fact, the eye, --
the mind, -- is always accompanied by these forms, male and female;
and these are incomparably the richest informations of the power and
order that lie at the heart of things.  Unfortunately, every one of
them bears the marks as of some injury; is marred and superficially
defective.  Nevertheless, far different from the deaf and dumb nature
around them, these all rest like fountain-pipes on the unfathomed sea
of thought and virtue whereto they alone, of all organizations, are
the entrances.

        It were a pleasant inquiry to follow into detail their ministry
to our education, but where would it stop?  We are associated in
adolescent and adult life with some friends, who, like skies and
waters, are coextensive with our idea; who, answering each to a
certain affection of the soul, satisfy our desire on that side; whom
we lack power to put at such focal distance from us, that we can mend
or even analyze them.  We cannot choose but love them.  When much
intercourse with a friend has supplied us with a standard of
excellence, and has increased our respect for the resources of God
who thus sends a real person to outgo our ideal; when he has,
moreover, become an object of thought, and, whilst his character
retains all its unconscious effect, is converted in the mind into
solid and sweet wisdom, -- it is a sign to us that his office is
closing, and he is commonly withdrawn from our sight in a short time.

 
 

                       _Chapter VI_ IDEALISM

        Thus is the unspeakable but intelligible and practicable
meaning of the world conveyed to man, the immortal pupil, in every
object of sense.  To this one end of Discipline, all parts of nature
conspire.

        A noble doubt perpetually suggests itself, whether this end be
not the Final Cause of the Universe; and whether nature outwardly
exists.  It is a sufficient account of that Appearance we call the
World, that God will teach a human mind, and so makes it the receiver
of a certain number of congruent sensations, which we call sun and
moon, man and woman, house and trade.  In my utter impotence to test
the authenticity of the report of my senses, to know whether the
impressions they make on me correspond with outlying objects, what
difference does it make, whether Orion is up there in heaven, or some
god paints the image in the firmament of the soul?  The relations of
parts and the end of the whole remaining the same, what is the
difference, whether land and sea interact, and worlds revolve and
intermingle without number or end, -- deep yawning under deep, and
galaxy balancing galaxy, throughout absolute space, -- or, whether,
without relations of time and space, the same appearances are
inscribed in the constant faith of man?  Whether nature enjoy a
substantial existence without, or is only in the apocalypse of the
mind, it is alike useful and alike venerable to me.  Be it what it
may, it is ideal to me, so long as I cannot try the accuracy of my
senses.

        The frivolous make themselves merry with the Ideal theory, as
if its consequences were burlesque; as if it affected the stability
of nature.  It surely does not.  God never jests with us, and will
not compromise the end of nature, by permitting any inconsequence in
its procession.  Any distrust of the permanence of laws, would
paralyze the faculties of man.  Their permanence is sacredly
respected, and his faith therein is perfect.  The wheels and springs
of man are all set to the hypothesis of the permanence of nature.  We
are not built like a ship to be tossed, but like a house to stand.
It is a natural consequence of this structure, that, so long as the
active powers predominate over the reflective, we resist with
indignation any hint that nature is more short-lived or mutable than
spirit.  The broker, the wheelwright, the carpenter, the toll-man,
are much displeased at the intimation.

        But whilst we acquiesce entirely in the permanence of natural
laws, the question of the absolute existence of nature still remains
open.  It is the uniform effect of culture on the human mind, not to
shake our faith in the stability of particular phenomena, as of heat,
water, azote; but to lead us to regard nature as a phenomenon, not a
substance; to attribute necessary existence to spirit; to esteem
nature as an accident and an effect.

        To the senses and the unrenewed understanding, belongs a sort
of instinctive belief in the absolute existence of nature.  In their
view, man and nature are indissolubly joined.  Things are ultimates,
and they never look beyond their sphere.  The presence of Reason mars
this faith.  The first effort of thought tends to relax this
despotism of the senses, which binds us to nature as if we were a
part of it, and shows us nature aloof, and, as it were, afloat.
Until this higher agency intervened, the animal eye sees, with
wonderful accuracy, sharp outlines and colored surfaces.  When the
eye of Reason opens, to outline and surface are at once added, grace
and expression.  These proceed from imagination and affection, and
abate somewhat of the angular distinctness of objects.  If the Reason
be stimulated to more earnest vision, outlines and surfaces become
transparent, and are no longer seen; causes and spirits are seen
through them.  The best moments of life are these delicious
awakenings of the higher powers, and the reverential withdrawing of
nature before its God.

        Let us proceed to indicate the effects of culture.  1. Our
first institution in the Ideal philosophy is a hint from nature
herself.

        Nature is made to conspire with spirit to emancipate us.
Certain mechanical changes, a small alteration in our local position
apprizes us of a dualism.  We are strangely affected by seeing the
shore from a moving ship, from a balloon, or through the tints of an
unusual sky.  The least change in our point of view, gives the whole
world a pictorial air.  A man who seldom rides, needs only to get
into a coach and traverse his own town, to turn the street into a
puppet-show.  The men, the women, -- talking, running, bartering,
fighting, -- the earnest mechanic, the lounger, the beggar, the boys,
the dogs, are unrealized at once, or, at least, wholly detached from
all relation to the observer, and seen as apparent, not substantial
beings.  What new thoughts are suggested by seeing a face of country
quite familiar, in the rapid movement of the rail-road car!  Nay, the
most wonted objects, (make a very slight change in the point of
vision,) please us most.  In a camera obscura, the butcher's cart,
and the figure of one of our own family amuse us.  So a portrait of a
well-known face gratifies us.  Turn the eyes upside down, by looking
at the landscape through your legs, and how agreeable is the picture,
though you have seen it any time these twenty years!

        In these cases, by mechanical means, is suggested the
difference between the observer and the spectacle, -- between man and
nature.  Hence arises a pleasure mixed with awe; I may say, a low
degree of the sublime is felt from the fact, probably, that man is
hereby apprized, that, whilst the world is a spectacle, something in
himself is stable.

        2. In a higher manner, the poet communicates the same pleasure.
By a few strokes he delineates, as on air, the sun, the mountain, the
camp, the city, the hero, the maiden, not different from what we know
them, but only lifted from the ground and afloat before the eye.  He
unfixes the land and the sea, makes them revolve around the axis of
his primary thought, and disposes them anew.  Possessed himself by a
heroic passion, he uses matter as symbols of it.  The sensual man
conforms thoughts to things; the poet conforms things to his
thoughts.  The one esteems nature as rooted and fast; the other, as
fluid, and impresses his being thereon.  To him, the refractory world
is ductile and flexible; he invests dust and stones with humanity,
and makes them the words of the Reason.  The Imagination may be
defined to be, the use which the Reason makes of the material world.
Shakspeare possesses the power of subordinating nature for the
purposes of expression, beyond all poets.  His imperial muse tosses
the creation like a bauble from hand to hand, and uses it to embody
any caprice of thought that is upper-most in his mind.  The remotest
spaces of nature are visited, and the farthest sundered things are
brought together, by a subtle spiritual connection.  We are made
aware that magnitude of material things is relative, and all objects
shrink and expand to serve the passion of the poet.  Thus, in his
sonnets, the lays of birds, the scents and dyes of flowers, he finds
to be the _shadow_ of his beloved; time, which keeps her from him, is
his _chest_; the suspicion she has awakened, is her _ornament_;
 
        The ornament of beauty is Suspect,
        A crow which flies in heaven's sweetest air.
 
        His passion is not the fruit of chance; it swells, as he
speaks, to a city, or a state.
 
        No, it was builded far from accident;
        It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls
        Under the brow of thralling discontent;
        It fears not policy, that heretic,
        That works on leases of short numbered hours,
        But all alone stands hugely politic.
 
        In the strength of his constancy, the Pyramids seem to him
recent and transitory.  The freshness of youth and love dazzles him
with its resemblance to morning.
 
        Take those lips away
        Which so sweetly were forsworn;
        And those eyes, -- the break of day,
        Lights that do mislead the morn.
 
        The wild beauty of this hyperbole, I may say, in passing, it
would not be easy to match in literature.

        This transfiguration which all material objects undergo through
the passion of the poet, -- this power which he exerts to dwarf the
great, to magnify the small, -- might be illustrated by a thousand
examples from his Plays.  I have before me the Tempest, and will cite
only these few lines.

        ARIEL.  The strong based promontory
        Have I made shake, and by the spurs plucked up
        The pine and cedar.

        Prospero calls for music to soothe the frantic Alonzo, and his
companions;
 
        A solemn air, and the best comforter
        To an unsettled fancy, cure thy brains
        Now useless, boiled within thy skull.
 
        Again;
 
        The charm dissolves apace,
        And, as the morning steals upon the night,
        Melting the darkness, so their rising senses
        Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle
        Their clearer reason.
        Their understanding
        Begins to swell: and the approaching tide
        Will shortly fill the reasonable shores
        That now lie foul and muddy.

        The perception of real affinities between events, (that is to
say, of _ideal_ affinities, for those only are real,) enables the
poet thus to make free with the most imposing forms and phenomena of
the world, and to assert the predominance of the soul.

        3. Whilst thus the poet animates nature with his own thoughts,
he differs from the philosopher only herein, that the one proposes
Beauty as his main end; the other Truth.  But the philosopher, not
less than the poet, postpones the apparent order and relations of
things to the empire of thought.  "The problem of philosophy,"
according to Plato, "is, for all that exists conditionally, to find a
ground unconditioned and absolute." It proceeds on the faith that a
law determines all phenomena, which being known, the phenomena can be
predicted.  That law, when in the mind, is an idea.  Its beauty is
infinite.  The true philosopher and the true poet are one, and a
beauty, which is truth, and a truth, which is beauty, is the aim of
both.  Is not the charm of one of Plato's or Aristotle's definitions,
strictly like that of the Antigone of Sophocles?  It is, in both
cases, that a spiritual life has been imparted to nature; that the
solid seeming block of matter has been pervaded and dissolved by a
thought; that this feeble human being has penetrated the vast masses
of nature with an informing soul, and recognised itself in their
harmony, that is, seized their law.  In physics, when this is
attained, the memory disburthens itself of its cumbrous catalogues of
particulars, and carries centuries of observation in a single
formula.

        Thus even in physics, the material is degraded before the
spiritual.  The astronomer, the geometer, rely on their irrefragable
analysis, and disdain the results of observation.  The sublime remark
of Euler on his law of arches, "This will be found contrary to all
experience, yet is true;" had already transferred nature into the
mind, and left matter like an outcast corpse.

        4. Intellectual science has been observed to beget invariably a
doubt of the existence of matter.  Turgot said, "He that has never
doubted the existence of matter, may be assured he has no aptitude
for metaphysical inquiries." It fastens the attention upon immortal
necessary uncreated natures, that is, upon Ideas; and in their
presence, we feel that the outward circumstance is a dream and a
shade.  Whilst we wait in this Olympus of gods, we think of nature as
an appendix to the soul.  We ascend into their region, and know that
these are the thoughts of the Supreme Being.  "These are they who
were set up from everlasting, from the beginning, or ever the earth
was.  When he prepared the heavens, they were there; when he
established the clouds above, when he strengthened the fountains of
the deep.  Then they were by him, as one brought up with him.  Of
them took he counsel."

        Their influence is proportionate.  As objects of science, they
are accessible to few men.  Yet all men are capable of being raised
by piety or by passion, into their region.  And no man touches these
divine natures, without becoming, in some degree, himself divine.
Like a new soul, they renew the body.  We become physically nimble
and lightsome; we tread on air; life is no longer irksome, and we
think it will never be so.  No man fears age or misfortune or death,
in their serene company, for he is transported out of the district of
change.  Whilst we behold unveiled the nature of Justice and Truth,
we learn the difference between the absolute and the conditional or
relative.  We apprehend the absolute.  As it were, for the first
time, _we exist_.  We become immortal, for we learn that time and
space are relations of matter; that, with a perception of truth, or a
virtuous will, they have no affinity.

        5. Finally, religion and ethics, which may be fitly called, --
the practice of ideas, or the introduction of ideas into life, --
have an analogous effect with all lower culture, in degrading nature
and suggesting its dependence on spirit.  Ethics and religion differ
herein; that the one is the system of human duties commencing from
man; the other, from God.  Religion includes the personality of God;
Ethics does not.  They are one to our present design.  They both put
nature under foot.  The first and last lesson of religion is, "The
things that are seen, are temporal; the things that are unseen, are
eternal." It puts an affront upon nature.  It does that for the
unschooled, which philosophy does for Berkeley and Viasa.  The
uniform language that may be heard in the churches of the most
ignorant sects, is,------"Contemn the unsubstantial shows of the
world; they are vanities, dreams, shadows, unrealities; seek the
realities of religion." The devotee flouts nature.  Some theosophists
have arrived at a certain hostility and indignation towards matter,
as the Manichean and Plotinus.  They distrusted in themselves any
looking back to these flesh-pots of Egypt.  Plotinus was ashamed of
his body.  In short, they might all say of matter, what Michael
Angelo said of external beauty, "it is the frail and weary weed, in
which God dresses the soul, which he has called into time."

        It appears that motion, poetry, physical and intellectual
science, and religion, all tend to affect our convictions of the
reality of the external world.  But I own there is something
ungrateful in expanding too curiously the particulars of the general
proposition, that all culture tends to imbue us with idealism.  I
have no hostility to nature, but a child's love to it.  I expand and
live in the warm day like corn and melons.  Let us speak her fair.  I
do not wish to fling stones at my beautiful mother, nor soil my
gentle nest.  I only wish to indicate the true position of nature in
regard to man, wherein to establish man, all right education tends;
as the ground which to attain is the object of human life, that is,
of man's connection with nature.  Culture inverts the vulgar views of
nature, and brings the mind to call that apparent, which it uses to
call real, and that real, which it uses to call visionary.  Children,
it is true, believe in the external world.  The belief that it
appears only, is an afterthought, but with culture, this faith will
as surely arise on the mind as did the first.

        The advantage of the ideal theory over the popular faith, is
this, that it presents the world in precisely that view which is most
desirable to the mind.  It is, in fact, the view which Reason, both
speculative and practical, that is, philosophy and virtue, take.
For, seen in the light of thought, the world always is phenomenal;
and virtue subordinates it to the mind.  Idealism sees the world in
God.  It beholds the whole circle of persons and things, of actions
and events, of country and religion, not as painfully accumulated,
atom after atom, act after act, in an aged creeping Past, but as one
vast picture, which God paints on the instant eternity, for the
contemplation of the soul.  Therefore the soul holds itself off from
a too trivial and microscopic study of the universal tablet.  It
respects the end too much, to immerse itself in the means.  It sees
something more important in Christianity, than the scandals of
ecclesiastical history, or the niceties of criticism; and, very
incurious concerning persons or miracles, and not at all disturbed by
chasms of historical evidence, it accepts from God the phenomenon, as
it finds it, as the pure and awful form of religion in the world.  It
is not hot and passionate at the appearance of what it calls its own
good or bad fortune, at the union or opposition of other persons.  No
man is its enemy.  It accepts whatsoever befalls, as part of its
lesson.  It is a watcher more than a doer, and it is a doer, only
that it may the better watch.

 
 

                       _Chapter VII_ SPIRIT

        It is essential to a true theory of nature and of man, that it
should contain somewhat progressive.  Uses that are exhausted or that
may be, and facts that end in the statement, cannot be all that is
true of this brave lodging wherein man is harbored, and wherein all
his faculties find appropriate and endless exercise.  And all the
uses of nature admit of being summed in one, which yields the
activity of man an infinite scope.  Through all its kingdoms, to the
suburbs and outskirts of things, it is faithful to the cause whence
it had its origin.  It always speaks of Spirit.  It suggests the
absolute.  It is a perpetual effect.  It is a great shadow pointing
always to the sun behind us.

        The aspect of nature is devout.  Like the figure of Jesus, she
stands with bended head, and hands folded upon the breast.  The
happiest man is he who learns from nature the lesson of worship.

        Of that ineffable essence which we call Spirit, he that thinks
most, will say least.  We can foresee God in the coarse, and, as it
were, distant phenomena of matter; but when we try to define and
describe himself, both language and thought desert us, and we are as
helpless as fools and savages.  That essence refuses to be recorded
in propositions, but when man has worshipped him intellectually, the
noblest ministry of nature is to stand as the apparition of God.  It
is the organ through which the universal spirit speaks to the
individual, and strives to lead back the individual to it.

        When we consider Spirit, we see that the views already
presented do not include the whole circumference of man.  We must add
some related thoughts.

        Three problems are put by nature to the mind; What is matter?
Whence is it? and Whereto?  The first of these questions only, the
ideal theory answers.  Idealism saith: matter is a phenomenon, not a
substance.  Idealism acquaints us with the total disparity between
the evidence of our own being, and the evidence of the world's being.
The one is perfect; the other, incapable of any assurance; the mind
is a part of the nature of things; the world is a divine dream, from
which we may presently awake to the glories and certainties of day.
Idealism is a hypothesis to account for nature by other principles
than those of carpentry and chemistry.  Yet, if it only deny the
existence of matter, it does not satisfy the demands of the spirit.
It leaves God out of me.  It leaves me in the splendid labyrinth of
my perceptions, to wander without end.  Then the heart resists it,
because it balks the affections in denying substantive being to men
and women.  Nature is so pervaded with human life, that there is
something of humanity in all, and in every particular.  But this
theory makes nature foreign to me, and does not account for that
consanguinity which we acknowledge to it.

        Let it stand, then, in the present state of our knowledge,
merely as a useful introductory hypothesis, serving to apprize us of
the eternal distinction between the soul and the world.

        But when, following the invisible steps of thought, we come to
inquire, Whence is matter? and Whereto? many truths arise to us out
of the recesses of consciousness.  We learn that the highest is
present to the soul of man, that the dread universal essence, which
is not wisdom, or love, or beauty, or power, but all in one, and each
entirely, is that for which all things exist, and that by which they
are; that spirit creates; that behind nature, throughout nature,
spirit is present; one and not compound, it does not act upon us from
without, that is, in space and time, but spiritually, or through
ourselves: therefore, that spirit, that is, the Supreme Being, does
not build up nature around us, but puts it forth through us, as the
life of the tree puts forth new branches and leaves through the pores
of the old.  As a plant upon the earth, so a man rests upon the bosom
of God; he is nourished by unfailing fountains, and draws, at his
need, inexhaustible power.  Who can set bounds to the possibilities
of man?  Once inhale the upper air, being admitted to behold the
absolute natures of justice and truth, and we learn that man has
access to the entire mind of the Creator, is himself the creator in
the finite.  This view, which admonishes me where the sources of
wisdom and power lie, and points to virtue as to

        "The golden key
        Which opes the palace of eternity,"
 
        carries upon its face the highest certificate of truth, because
it animates me to create my own world through the purification of my
soul.

        The world proceeds from the same spirit as the body of man.  It
is a remoter and inferior incarnation of God, a projection of God in
the unconscious.  But it differs from the body in one important
respect.  It is not, like that, now subjected to the human will.  Its
serene order is inviolable by us.  It is, therefore, to us, the
present expositor of the divine mind.  It is a fixed point whereby we
may measure our departure.  As we degenerate, the contrast between us
and our house is more evident.  We are as much strangers in nature,
as we are aliens from God.  We do not understand the notes of birds.
The fox and the deer run away from us; the bear and tiger rend us.
We do not know the uses of more than a few plants, as corn and the
apple, the potato and the vine.  Is not the landscape, every glimpse
of which hath a grandeur, a face of him?  Yet this may show us what
discord is between man and nature, for you cannot freely admire a
noble landscape, if laborers are digging in the field hard by.  The
poet finds something ridiculous in his delight, until he is out of
the sight of men.

 
 

                       _Chapter VIII_ PROSPECTS

        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.

        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.

                "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.

                "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.

                "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.

                "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.

                "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."

        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.

        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.

        `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.

        `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?

        `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.

        `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.

        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_.

        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.

        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.

        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.'

.