Self-Reliance
Ralph
Waldo
Emerson
1841
“Ne
te
quaesiveris
extra.”
“Man
is
his
own
star;
and
the
soul
that
can
Render
an
honest
and
a
perfect
man,
Commands
all
light,
all
influence,
all
fate;
Nothing
to
him
falls
early
or
too
late.
Our
acts
our
angels
are,
or
good
or
ill,
Our
fatal
shadows
that
walk
by
us
still.”
Epilogue
to
Beaumont
and
Fletcher’s
Honest
Man’s
Fortune
Cast
the
bantling
on
the
rocks,
Suckle
him
with
the
she-wolf’s
teat;
Wintered
with
the
hawk
and
fox,
Power
and
speed
be
hands
and
feet.
I
read
the
other
day
some
verses
written
by
an
eminent
painter
which
were
original
and
not
conventional.
The
soul
always
hears
an
admonition
in
such
lines,
let
the
subject
be
what
it
may.
The
sentiment
they
instil
is
of
more
value
than
any
thought
they
may
contain.
To
believe
your
own
thought,
to
believe
that
what
is
true
for
you
in
your
private
heart
is
true
for
all
men,
—
that
is
genius.
Speak
your
latent
conviction,
and
it
shall
be
the
universal
sense;
for
the
inmost
in
due
time
becomes
the
outmost,
—
and
our
first
thought
is
rendered
back
to
us
by
the
trumpets
of
the
Last
Judgment.
Familiar as the
voice
of the
mind
is
to each,
the
highest
merit
we
ascribe
to
Moses,
Plato,
and
Milton
is,
that
they
set
at
naught
books
and
traditions,
and
spoke
not
what
men
but
what
they
thought.
A
man
should
learn
to
detect
and
watch
that
gleam
of
light
which
flashes
across
his
mind
from
within,
more
than
the
lustre
of
the
firmament
of
bards
and
sages.
Yet
1
he
dismisses
without
notice
his
thought,
because
it
is
his.
In
every
work
of
genius
we
recognize
our
own
rejected
thoughts:
they
come
back
to
us
with
a
certain
alienated
majesty.
Great
works
of
art
have
no
more
affecting
lesson
for us
than this.
They
teach
us
to abide by
our spontaneous
impression
with
good-humored
inflexibility
then
most
when
the
whole
cry
of
voices
is
on
the
other
side.
Else,
to-morrow
a
stranger
will
say
with
masterly
good
sense
precisely
what
we
have
thought
and
felt
all
the
time,
and
we
shall
be
forced
to
take
with
shame
our
own
opinion
from
another.
There is a time in every man’s education when he arrives at the conviction
that
envy
is
ignorance;
that
imitation
is
suicide;
that
he
must
take
himself
for
better,
for
worse,
as
his
portion;
that
though
the
wide
universe
is
full
of
good,
no
kernel
of
nourishing
corn
can
come
to
him
but
through
his
toil
bestowed
on
that
plot
of
ground
which
is
given
to
him
to
till.
The
power
which
resides
in
him
is
new
in
nature,
and
none
but
he
knows
what
that
is
which
he
can
do,
nor
does
he
know
until
he
has
tried.
Not
for
nothing
one
face,
one
character,
one
fact,
makes
much
impression
on
him,
and
another
none.
This
sculpture
in
the
memory
is
not
without
preestablished
harmony.
The
eye
was
placed
where
one
ray
should
fall,
that
it
might
testify
of
that
particular ray.
We but half express ourselves,
and are ashamed of that divine
idea
which
each
of
us
represents.
It
may
be
safely
trusted
as
proportionate
and
of
good
issues,
so
it
be
faithfully
imparted,
but
God
will
not
have
his
work
made
manifest
by
cowards.
A
man
is
relieved
and
gay
when
he
has
put
his
heart
into
his
work
and
done
his
best;
but
what
he
has
said
or
done
otherwise,
shall give him no peace.
It is a deliverance
which does not deliver.
In
the
attempt
his
genius
deserts
him;
no
muse
befriends;
no
invention,
no
hope.
Trust
thyself:
every
heart
vibrates
to
that
iron
string.
Accept
the
place
the
divine
providence
has
found
for
you,
the
society
of
your
contemporaries,
the
connection
of
events.
Great
men
have
always
done
so,
and
confided
themselves
childlike
to
the
genius
of
their
age,
betraying
their
perception
that
the
absolutely
trustworthy
was
seated
at
their
heart,
working
through
their hands, predominating in all their being.
And we are now men, and must
accept
in
the
highest
mind
the
same
transcendent
destiny;
and
not
minors
and
invalids
in
a
protected
corner,
not
cowards
fleeing
before
a
revolution,
but
guides,
redeemers,
and
benefactors,
obeying
the
Almighty
effort,
and
advancing
on
Chaos
and
the
Dark.
What
pretty
oracles
nature
yields
us
on
this
text,
in
the
face
and
be-
haviour
of
children,
babes,
and
even
brutes!
That
divided
and
rebel
mind,
2
that distrust of a sentiment because our arithmetic has computed the strength
and means opposed to our purpose,
these
have not.
Their mind being whole,
their
eye
is
as
yet
unconquered,
and
when
we
look
in
their
faces,
we
are
disconcerted.
Infancy
conforms
to
nobody:
all
conform
to
it,
so
that
one
babe
commonly
makes
four
or
five
out
of
the
adults
who
prattle
and
play
to
it.
So
God
has
armed
youth
and
puberty
and
manhood
no
less
with
its
own
piquancy
and
charm,
and
made
it
enviable
and
gracious
and
its
claims
not
to
be
put
by,
if
it
will
stand
by
itself.
Do
not
think
the
youth
has
no
force,
because
he
cannot
speak
to
you
and
me.
Hark!
in
the
next
room
his
voice
is
sufficiently
clear
and
emphatic.
It
seems
he
knows
how
to
speak
to
his
contemporaries.
Bashful
or
bold,
then,
he
will
know
how
to
make
us
seniors
very
unnecessary.
The
nonchalance
of
boys
who
are
sure
of
a
dinner,
and
would
disdain
as
much
as
a
lord
to
do
or
say
aught
to
conciliate
one,
is
the
healthy
attitude
of
human
nature.
A
boy
is
in
the
parlour
what
the
pit
is
in
the
playhouse;
independent,
irresponsible,
looking
out
from
his
corner
on
such
people
and
facts
as
pass
by,
he
tries
and
sentences
them
on
their
merits,
in
the
swift,
summary way of boys, as good, bad, interesting,
silly,
eloquent,
troublesome.
He
cumbers
himself
never
about
consequences,
about
interests:
he
gives
an
independent,
genuine
verdict.
You
must
court
him:
he
does
not
court
you.
But the
man
is,
as
it were,
clapped
into jail by
his
consciousness.
As
soon as
he
has
once
acted
or
spoken
with
eclat,
he
is
a
committed
person,
watched
by the sympathy
or the
hatred of hundreds,
whose
affections must
now
enter
into
his
account.
There
is
no
Lethe
for
this.
Ah,
that
he
could
pass
again
into
his
neutrality!
Who
can
thus
avoid
all
pledges,
and
having
observed,
observe
again
from
the
same
unaffected,
unbiased,
unbribable,
unaffrighted
innocence, must always be formidable.
He would utter opinions on all passing
affairs, which being seen to be not private, but necessary, would sink like darts
into
the
ear
of
men,
and
put
them
in
fear.
These
are
the
voices
which
we
hear
in
solitude,
but
they
grow
faint
and
inaudible
as
we
enter
into
the
world.
Society
everywhere
is
in
conspiracy
against
the
manhood
of
every
one
of
its
members.
Society
is
a
joint-stock
company,
in
which
the
members
agree,
for
the
better
securing
of
his
bread
to
each
shareholder,
to
surrender
the
liberty
and
culture
of
the
eater.
The
virtue
in
most
request
is
conformity.
Self-reliance
is
its
aversion.
It
loves
not
realities
and
creators,
but
names
and
customs.
Whoso
would
be
a
man
must
be
a
nonconformist.
He
who
would
gather
immortal
palms
must
not
be
hindered
by
the
name
of
goodness,
but
must
3
explore
if
it
be
goodness.
Nothing
is
at
last
sacred
but
the
integrity
of
your
own
mind.
Absolve
you
to
yourself,
and
you
shall
have
the
suffrage
of
the
world.
I
remember
an
answer
which
when
quite
young
I
was
prompted
to
make
to
a
valued
adviser,
who
was
wont
to
importune
me
with
the
dear
old
doctrines
of
the
church.
On
my
saying,
What
have
I
to
do
with
the
sacredness
of
traditions,
if
I
live
wholly
from
within?
my
friend
suggested,
—
“But
these
impulses
may
be
from
below,
not
from
above.”
I
replied,
“They
do
not
seem
to
me
to
be
such;
but
if
I
am
the
Devil’s
child,
I
will
live
then
from
the
Devil.”
No
law
can
be
sacred
to
me
but
that
of
my
nature.
Good
and
bad
are
but
names
very
readily
transferable
to
that
or
this;
the
only
right
is
what
is
after
my
constitution,
the
only
wrong
what
is
against
it.
A
man
is
to
carry
himself
in
the
presence
of
all
opposition,
as
if
every
thing
were
titular
and
ephemeral
but
he.
I
am
ashamed
to
think
how
easily
we
capitulate
to
badges
and
names,
to
large
societies
and
dead
institutions.
Every
decent
and
well-spoken
individual
affects
and
sways
me
more
than
is
right.
I
ought
to
go
upright
and
vital,
and
speak
the
rude
truth
in
all
ways.
If
malice
and
vanity
wear
the
coat
of
philanthropy,
shall
that
pass?
If
an
angry
bigot
assumes
this
bountiful
cause
of
Abolition,
and
comes
to
me
with
his
last
news
from
Barbadoes,
why
should
I
not
say
to
him,
‘Go
love
thy
infant;
love
thy
wood-chopper:
be
good-natured
and
modest:
have
that
grace;
and
never
varnish
your
hard,
uncharitable
ambition
with
this
incredible
tenderness
for
black
folk
a
thousand
miles
off.
Thy
love
afar
is
spite
at
home.’
Rough
and
graceless
would
be
such
greeting,
but
truth
is
handsomer
than the
affectation
of love.
Your
goodness
must
have
some
edge
to
it,
—
else
it
is
none.
The
doctrine
of
hatred
must
be
preached
as
the
counteraction
of
the
doctrine
of
love
when
that
pules
and
whines.
I
shun
father
and
mother
and
wife
and
brother,
when
my
genius
calls
me.
I
would
write
on
the
lintels
of
the
door-post,
Whim
.
I
hope
it
is
somewhat
better
than
whim
at
last,
but
we
cannot
spend
the
day
in
explanation.
Expect
me
not to show cause why I seek or why I exclude company.
Then,
again, do not
tell
me,
as
a
good
man
did
to-day,
of
my
obligation
to
put
all
poor
men
in
good
situations.
Are
they
my
poor?
I
tell
thee,
thou
foolish
philanthropist,
that
I
grudge
the
dollar,
the
dime,
the
cent,
I
give
to
such
men
as
do
not
belong
to
me
and
to
whom
I
do
not
belong.
There
is
a
class
of
persons
to
whom
by
all
spiritual
affinity
I
am
bought
and
sold;
for
them
I
will
go
to
prison,
if need be;
but your miscellaneous
popular charities;
the education at
college of fools; the building of meeting-houses to the vain end to which many
now
stand;
alms
to
sots;
and
the
thousandfold
Relief
Societies;
—
though
I
4
confess
with
shame
I
sometimes
succumb
and
give
the
dollar,
it
is
a
wicked
dollar
which
by
and
by
I
shall
have
the
manhood
to
withhold.
Virtues
are,
in
the
popular
estimate,
rather
the
exception
than
the
rule.
There
is
the
man
and
his
virtues.
Men
do
what
is
called
a
good
action,
as
some
piece
of
courage
or
charity,
much
as
they
would
pay
a
fine
in
expiation
of
daily
non-appearance
on
parade.
Their
works
are
done
as
an
apology
or
extenuation
of
their
living
in
the
world,
—
as
invalids
and
the
insane
pay
a
high board.
Their virtues are penances.
I do not wish to expiate,
but to live.
My life is
for itself and not for a spectacle.
I much
prefer that it should
be of
a
lower
strain,
so
it
be
genuine
and
equal,
than
that
it
should
be
glittering
and
unsteady.
I
wish
it
to
be
sound
and
sweet,
and
not
to
need
diet
and
bleeding.
I
ask
primary
evidence
that
you
are
a
man,
and
refuse
this
appeal
from
the
man
to
his
actions.
I
know
that
for
myself
it
makes
no
difference
whether
I
do
or
forbear
those
actions
which
are
reckoned
excellent.
I
cannot
consent
to
pay
for
a
privilege
where
I
have
intrinsic
right.
Few
and
mean
as
my
gifts
may
be,
I
actually
am,
and
do
not
need
for
my
own
assurance
or
the
assurance
of
my
fellows
any
secondary
testimony.
What
I
must
do
is
all
that
concerns
me,
not
what
the
people
think.
This
rule, equally arduous in actual and in intellectual life, may serve for the whole
distinction
between
greatness
and
meanness.
It
is
the
harder,
because
you
will
always
find
those
who
think
they
know
what
is
your
duty
better
than
you know it.
It is easy in the world to live after the world’s opinion;
it is easy
in
solitude
to
live
after
our
own;
but
the
great
man
is
he
who
in
the
midst
of
the
crowd
keeps
with
perfect
sweetness
the
independence
of
solitude.
The
objection
to
conforming
to
usages
that
have
become
dead
to
you
is,
that it scatters your force.
It loses your time and blurs the impression of your
character.
If you
maintain
a dead church,
contribute
to a dead
Bible-society,
vote
with
a
great
party
either
for
the
government
or
against
it,
spread
your
table
like
base
housekeepers,
—
under
all
these
screens
I
have
difficulty
to
detect
the
precise
man
you
are.
And,
of
course,
so
much
force
is
withdrawn
from your proper life.
But do your work, and I shall know you.
Do your work,
and you shall reinforce yourself.
A man must consider what a blindman’s-buff
is
this
game
of
conformity.
If
I
know
your
sect,
I
anticipate
your
argument.
I
hear
a
preacher
announce
for
his
text
and
topic
the
expediency
of
one
of
the
institutions
of
his
church.
Do
I
not
know
beforehand
that
not
possibly
can
he
say
a
new
and
spontaneous
word?
Do
I
not
know
that,
with
all
this
ostentation
of
examining
the
grounds
of
the
institution,
he
will
do
no
such
thing?
Do
I
not
know
that
he
is
pledged
to
himself
not
to
look
but
at
one
5
side,
—
the
permitted
side,
not
as
a
man,
but
as
a
parish
minister?
He
is
a
retained
attorney,
and
these
airs
of
the
bench
are
the
emptiest
affectation.
Well,
most
men
have
bound
their
eyes
with
one
or
another
handkerchief,
and
attached
themselves
to
some
one
of
these
communities
of
opinion.
This
conformity
makes
them
not
false
in
a
few
particulars,
authors
of
a
few
lies,
but
false
in
all
particulars.
Their
every
truth
is
not
quite
true.
Their
two
is
not
the
real
two,
their
four
not
the
real
four;
so
that
every
word
they
say
chagrins
us,
and
we
know
not
where
to
begin
to
set
them
right.
Meantime
nature
is
not
slow
to
equip
us
in
the
prison-uniform
of
the
party
to
which
we
adhere.
We
come
to
wear
one
cut
of
face
and
figure,
and
acquire
by
degrees
the
gentlest
asinine
expression.
There
is
a
mortifying
experience
in
particular,
which
does
not
fail
to
wreak
itself
also
in
the
general
history;
I
mean
“the
foolish
face
of
praise,”
the
forced
smile
which
we
put
on
in
company
where
we
do
not
feel
at
ease
in
answer
to
conversation
which
does
not
interest
us.
The
muscles,
not
spontaneously
moved,
but
moved
by
a
low
usurping
wilfulness,
grow
tight
about
the
outline
of
the
face
with
the
most
disagreeable
sensation.
For
nonconformity
the
world
whips
you
with
its
displeasure.
And
there-
fore
a
man
must
know
how
to
estimate
a
sour
face.
The
by-standers
look
askance
on
him
in
the
public
street
or
in
the
friend’s
parlour.
If
this
aver-
sation
had
its
origin
in
contempt
and
resistance
like
his
own,
he
might
well
go
home
with
a
sad
countenance;
but
the
sour
faces
of
the
multitude,
like
their
sweet
faces,
have
no
deep
cause,
but
are
put
on
and
offas
the
wind
blows
and
a
newspaper
directs.
Yet
is
the
discontent
of
the
multitude
more
formidable
than
that
of
the
senate
and
the
college.
It
is
easy
enough
for
a
firm
man
who
knows
the
world
to
brook
the
rage
of
the
cultivated
classes.
Their rage is decorous and prudent,
for they are timid as being very vulnera-
ble themselves.
But when to their feminine rage the indignation of the people
is added, when the ignorant and the poor are aroused, when the unintelligent
brute
force
that
lies
at
the
bottom
of
society
is
made
to
growl
and
mow,
it
needs
the
habit
of
magnanimity
and
religion
to
treat
it
godlike
as
a
trifle
of
no
concernment.
The
other
terror that scares
us
from self-trust
is
our consistency;
a rever-
ence
for
our
past
act
or
word,
because
the
eyes
of
others
have
no
other
data
for
computing
our
orbit
than
our
past
acts,
and
we
are
loath
to
disappoint
them.
But why should you keep your head over your shoulder?
Why drag about
this
corpse
of
your
memory,
lest
you
contradict
somewhat
you
have
stated
6
in
this
or
that
public
place?
Suppose
you
should
contradict
yourself;
what
then?
It
seems
to
be
a
rule
of
wisdom
never
to
rely
on
your
memory
alone,
scarcely even in acts of pure memory, but to bring the past for judgment into
the
thousand-eyed
present,
and
live
ever
in
a
new
day.
In
your
metaphysics
you
have
denied
personality
to
the
Deity:
yet
when
the
devout
motions
of
the
soul
come,
yield
to
them
heart
and
life,
though
they
should
clothe
God
with
shape
and
color.
Leave
your
theory,
as
Joseph
his
coat
in
the
hand
of
the
harlot,
and
flee.
A
foolish
consistency
is
the
hobgoblin
of
little
minds,
adored
by
little
statesmen
and
philosophers
and
divines.
With
consistency
a
great
soul
has
simply
nothing
to
do.
He
may
as
well
concern
himself
with
his
shadow
on
the
wall.
Speak
what
you
think
now
in
hard
words,
and
to-morrow
speak
what to-morrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing
you
said
to-day.
—
‘Ah,
so
you
shall
be
sure
to
be
misunderstood.’
—
Is
it
so
bad,
then,
to
be
misunderstood?
Pythagoras
was
misunderstood,
and
Socrates,
and
Jesus,
and
Luther,
and
Copernicus,
and
Galileo,
and
Newton,
and
every
pure
and
wise
spirit
that
ever
took
flesh.
To
be
great
is
to
be
misunderstood.
I
suppose
no
man
can
violate
his
nature.
All
the
sallies
of
his
will
are
rounded in by the law of his being, as the inequalities of Andes and Himmaleh
are insignificant in the curve of the sphere.
Nor does it matter how you gauge
and try him.
A character is like an acrostic or Alexandrian stanza;
— read it
forward,
backward,
or
across,
it
still
spells
the
same
thing.
In
this
pleasing,
contrite wood-life which
God allows
me,
let me
record day
by day
my
honest
thought without prospect or retrospect, and, I cannot doubt, it will be found
symmetrical,
though
I
mean
it
not,
and
see
it
not.
My
book
should
smell
of
pines
and
resound
with
the
hum
of
insects.
The
swallow
over
my
window
should interweave
that thread or straw he carries in his bill into my web also.
We
pass
for
what
we
are.
Character
teaches
above
our
wills.
Men
imagine
that they
communicate
their
virtue
or vice
only
by
overt
actions,
and do
not
see
that
virtue
or
vice
emit
a
breath
every
moment.
There
will
be
an
agreement
in
whatever
variety
of
actions,
so
they
be
each
honest
and
natural
in
their
hour.
For
of
one
will,
the
actions
will
be
harmonious,
however
unlike
they
seem.
These
varieties
are
lost
sight
of
at
a
little
distance,
at
a
little
height
of
thought.
One
tendency
unites
them
all.
The
voyage
of
the
best
ship
is
a
zigzag
line
of
a
hundred
tacks.
See
the
line
from
a
sufficient
distance,
and
it
straightens
itself
to
the
average
tendency.
Your
genuine
action
will
explain
itself,
and
will
explain
your
other
genuine
7
actions.
Your
conformity
explains
nothing.
Act
singly,
and
what
you
have
already
done
singly
will
justify
you
now.
Greatness
appeals
to
the
future.
If
I
can
be
firm
enough
to-day
to
do
right,
and
scorn
eyes,
I
must
have
done
so
much
right
before
as
to
defend
me
now.
Be
it
how
it
will,
do
right
now.
Always
scorn
appearances,
and
you
always
may.
The
force
of
character
is
cumulative.
All the foregone days of virtue work their health into this.
What
makes
the
majesty
of
the
heroes
of
the
senate
and
the
field,
which
so
fills
the
imagination?
The
consciousness
of
a
train
of
great
days
and
victories
behind.
They shed
an united light on the advancing actor.
He is attended as
by a visible escort of angels.
That is it which throws thunder into Chatham’s
voice,
and
dignity
into
Washington’s
port,
and
America
into
Adams’s
eye.
Honor
is
venerable
to
us
because
it
is
no
ephemeris.
It
is
always
ancient
virtue.
We
worship
it
to-day
because
it
is
not
of
to-day.
We
love
it
and
pay
it
homage,
because
it
is
not
a
trap
for
our
love
and
homage,
but
is
self-
dependent,
self-derived,
and
therefore
of an
old
immaculate
pedigree,
even
if
shown
in
a
young
person.
I hope in these days we have heard the last of conformity and consistency.
Let
the
words
be
gazetted
and
ridiculous
henceforward.
Instead
of
the
gong
for
dinner,
let
us
hear
a
whistle
from
the
Spartan
fife.
Let
us
never
bow
and
apologize
more.
A
great
man
is
coming
to
eat
at
my
house.
I
do
not
wish
to
please
him;
I
wish
that
he
should
wish
to
please
me.
I
will
stand
here
for
humanity,
and
though
I
would
make
it
kind,
I
would
make
it
true.
Let
us
affront and reprimand the smooth mediocrity and squalid contentment of the
times,
and
hurl
in
the
face
of custom,
and trade,
and
office,
the
fact
which
is
the
upshot
of all
history,
that there
is
a
great responsible
Thinker
and
Actor
working
wherever
a
man
works;
that
a
true
man
belongs
to
no
other
time
or
place,
but
is
the
centre
of
things.
Where
he
is,
there
is
nature.
He
measures
you,
and
all
men,
and
all
events.
Ordinarily,
every
body
in
society
reminds
us
of
somewhat
else,
or
of
some
other
person.
Character,
reality,
reminds
you
of
nothing
else;
it
takes
place
of
the
whole
creation.
The
man
must
be
so
much,
that
he
must
make
all
circumstances
indifferent.
Every
true
man
is
a
cause,
a
country,
and
an
age;
requires
infinite
spaces
and
numbers
and
time
fully
to
accomplish
his
design;
— and
posterity
seem
to follow
his
steps
as
a
train
of
clients.
A
man
Caesar
is
born,
and
for
ages
after
we
have
a
Roman
Empire.
Christ
is
born,
and
millions
of
minds
so
grow
and
cleave
to
his
genius,
that
he
is
confounded
with
virtue
and
the
possible
of
man.
An
institution
is
the
lengthened
shadow
of
one
man;
as,
Monachism,
of
the
Hermit Antony;
the
Reformation, of Luther;
Quakerism,
of Fox;
Methodism,
8
of Wesley; Abolition, of Clarkson.
Scipio, Milton called “the height of Rome”;
and
all
history
resolves
itself
very
easily
into
the
biography
of
a
few
stout
and
earnest
persons.
Let
a
man
then
know
his
worth,
and
keep
things
under
his
feet.
Let
him
not
peep
or
steal,
or
skulk
up
and
down
with
the
air
of
a
charity-boy,
a
bastard,
or
an
interloper,
in
the
world
which
exists
for
him.
But
the
man
in
the
street,
finding
no
worth
in
himself
which
corresponds
to
the
force
which
built
a
tower
or
sculptured
a
marble
god,
feels
poor
when
he
looks
on
these.
To
him
a
palace,
a
statue,
or
a
costly
book
have
an
alien
and
forbidding
air,
much
like
a gay
equipage,
and
seem
to say
like
that,
‘Who
are you,
Sir?’
Yet
they
all
are
his,
suitors
for
his
notice,
petitioners
to
his
faculties
that
they
will come out and take possession.
The picture waits for my verdict:
it is not
to
command
me,
but
I
am
to
settle
its
claims
to
praise.
That
popular
fable
of
the
sot
who
was
picked
up
dead
drunk
in
the
street,
carried
to
the
duke’s
house,
washed
and
dressed
and
laid
in
the
duke’s
bed,
and,
on
his
waking,
treated
with
all
obsequious
ceremony
like
the
duke,
and
assured
that
he
had
been
insane,
owes
its
popularity
to
the
fact,
that
it
symbolizes
so
well
the
state
of
man,
who
is
in
the
world
a
sort
of
sot,
but
now
and
then
wakes
up,
exercises
his
reason,
and
finds
himself
a
true
prince.
Our
reading
is
mendicant
and
sycophantic.
In
history,
our
imagination
plays
us
false.
Kingdom
and
lordship,
power
and
estate,
are
a
gaudier
vo-
cabulary
than
private
John
and
Edward
in
a
small
house
and
common
day’s
work;
but
the
things
of
life
are
the
same
to
both;
the
sum
total
of
both
is
the
same.
Why
all
this
deference
to
Alfred,
and
Scanderbeg,
and
Gustavus?
Suppose
they
were
virtuous;
did
they
wear
out
virtue?
As
great
a
stake
depends
on
your
private
act
to-day,
as
followed
their
public
and
renowned
steps.
When
private
men
shall
act
with
original
views,
the
lustre
will
be
transferred
from
the
actions
of
kings
to
those
of
gentlemen.
The
world
has
been
instructed
by
its
kings,
who
have
so
magnetized
the
eyes
of
nations.
It
has
been
taught
by
this
colossal
symbol
the
mutual
reverence
that
is
due
from
man
to
man.
The
joyful
loyalty
with
which
men
have
everywhere
suffered
the
king,
the
noble,
or
the
great
proprietor
to
walk
among them
by
a law
of his
own,
make
his
own
scale
of men
and
things,
and
reverse theirs, pay for benefits not with money but with honor, and represent
the
law
in
his
person,
was
the
hieroglyphic
by
which
they
obscurely
signified
their consciousness
of their own right and comeliness,
the right of every man.
The
magnetism
which
all
original
action
exerts
is
explained
when
we
inquire
the
reason
of
self-trust.
Who
is
the
Trustee?
What
is
the
aboriginal
9
Self,
on
which
a
universal
reliance
may
be
grounded?
What
is
the
nature
and
power
of
that
science-baffling
star,
without
parallax,
without
calculable
elements,
which
shoots
a
ray
of
beauty
even
into
trivial
and
impure
actions,
if
the
least
mark
of
independence
appear?
The
inquiry
leads
us
to
that
source,
at
once
the
essence
of
genius,
of
virtue,
and
of
life,
which
we
call
Spontaneity
or Instinct.
We
denote
this
primary
wisdom
as
Intuition,
whilst
all later teachings
are tuitions.
In that deep
force, the last fact behind which
analysis cannot go, all things find their common origin.
For, the sense of being
which
in
calm
hours
rises,
we
know
not
how,
in
the
soul,
is
not
diverse
from
things,
from space,
from light,
from time,
from man, but one with them,
and
proceeds
obviously
from
the
same
source
whence
their
life
and
being
also
proceed.
We
first
share
the
life
by
which
things
exist,
and
afterwards
see
them
as
appearances
in
nature,
and
forget
that
we
have
shared
their
cause.
Here
is
the
fountain
of
action
and
of
thought.
Here
are
the
lungs
of
that
inspiration
which
giveth
man
wisdom,
and
which
cannot
be
denied
without
impiety
and
atheism.
We
lie
in
the
lap of immense
intelligence,
which
makes
us
receivers
of
its
truth
and
organs
of
its
activity.
When
we
discern
justice,
when
we
discern
truth,
we
do
nothing
of
ourselves,
but
allow
a
passage
to
its
beams.
If
we
ask
whence
this
comes,
if
we
seek
to
pry
into
the
soul
that
causes,
all
philosophy
is
at
fault.
Its
presence
or
its
absence
is
all
we
can
affirm.
Every man discriminates between
the voluntary acts of his mind, and
his
involuntary
perceptions,
and
knows
that
to his
involuntary
perceptions
a
perfect faith is due.
He may err in the expression
of them,
but he knows that
these
things
are so,
like
day
and night,
not to be
disputed.
My wilful
actions
and
acquisitions
are
but
roving;
—
the
idlest
reverie,
the
faintest
native
emotion,
command
my
curiosity
and
respect.
Thoughtless
people
contradict
as
readily
the
statement
of
perceptions
as
of
opinions,
or
rather
much
more
readily;
for,
they
do
not
distinguish
between
perception
and
notion.
They
fancy that I choose to see this or that thing.
But perception is not whimsical,
but
fatal.
If
I
see
a
trait,
my
children
will
see
it
after
me,
and
in
course
of
time,
all
mankind,
—
although
it
may
chance
that
no
one
has
seen
it
before
me.
For
my
perception
of
it
is
as
much
a
fact
as
the
sun.
The relations of the soul to the divine spirit are so pure, that it is profane
to
seek
to
interpose
helps.
It
must
be
that
when
God
speaketh
he
should
communicate,
not
one
thing,
but
all
things;
should
fill
the
world
with
his
voice;
should
scatter
forth
light,
nature,
time,
souls,
from
the
centre
of
the
present
thought;
and
new
date
and
new
create
the
whole.
Whenever
a
mind
is
simple,
and
receives
a
divine
wisdom,
old
things
pass
away,
—
means,
10
teachers,
texts,
temples
fall;
it
lives
now,
and
absorbs
past
and
future
into
the present hour.
All things are made sacred by relation to it, — one as much
as
another.
All
things
are
dissolved
to
their
centre
by
their
cause,
and,
in
the
universal
miracle,
petty
and
particular
miracles
disappear.
If,
therefore,
a
man
claims
to
know
and
speak
of
God,
and
carries
you
backward
to
the
phraseology
of
some
old
mouldered
nation
in
another
country,
in
another
world,
believe
him
not.
Is
the
acorn
better
than
the
oak
which
is
its
fulness
and
completion?
Is
the
parent
better
than
the
child
into
whom
he
has
cast
his
ripened
being?
Whence,
then,
this
worship
of
the
past?
The
centuries
are conspirators against the sanity and authority of the soul.
Time and space
are but
physiological
colors
which
the
eye
makes,
but the
soul
is
light;
where
it
is,
is
day;
where
it
was,
is
night;
and
history
is
an
impertinence
and
an
injury,
if
it
be
any
thing
more
than
a
cheerful
apologue
or
parable
of
my
being
and
becoming.
Man
is
timid
and
apologetic;
he
is
no
longer
upright;
he
dares
not
say
‘I
think,’
‘I
am,’
but
quotes
some
saint
or
sage.
He
is
ashamed
before
the
blade
of
grass
or
the
blowing
rose.
These
roses
under
my
window
make
no
reference
to
former
roses
or
to
better
ones;
they
are
for
what
they
are;
they
exist
with
God
to-day.
There
is
no
time
to
them.
There
is
simply
the
rose;
it is perfect in every
moment
of its existence.
Before a leaf-bud has burst,
its
whole
life
acts;
in
the
full-blown
flower
there
is
no
more;
in
the
leafless
root
there
is
no
less.
Its
nature
is
satisfied,
and
it
satisfies
nature,
in
all
moments
alike.
But
man
postpones
or
remembers;
he
does
not live
in
the
present,
but
with
reverted
eye
laments
the
past,
or,
heedless
of
the
riches
that
surround
him,
stands
on
tiptoe
to
foresee
the
future.
He
cannot
be
happy
and
strong
until
he
too
lives
with
nature
in
the
present,
above
time.
This
should
be
plain
enough.
Yet
see
what
strong
intellects
dare
not
yet
hear God himself, unless he speak the phraseology of I know not what David,
or Jeremiah,
or Paul.
We shall not always
set
so great a price on a few texts,
on
a
few
lives.
We
are
like
children
who
repeat
by
rote
the
sentences
of
grandames
and
tutors,
and,
as
they
grow
older,
of
the
men
of
talents
and
character
they
chance
to
see,
—
painfully
recollecting
the
exact
words
they
spoke;
afterwards,
when
they
come
into
the
point
of
view
which
those
had
who
uttered
these
sayings,
they
understand
them,
and
are
willing
to
let
the
words go; for, at any time,
they can use words
as good when
occasion comes.
If
we
live
truly,
we
shall
see
truly.
It
is
as
easy
for
the
strong
man
to
be
strong,
as
it
is
for
the
weak
to
be
weak.
When
we
have
new
perception,
we
shall
gladly
disburden
the
memory
of
its
hoarded
treasures
as
old
rubbish.
11
When
a
man
lives
with
God,
his
voice
shall
be
as
sweet
as
the
murmur
of
the
brook
and
the
rustle
of
the
corn.
And
now
at
last
the
highest
truth
on
this
subject
remains
unsaid;
prob-
ably
cannot
be
said;
for
all
that
we
say
is
the
far-offremembering
of
the
intuition.
That
thought,
by
what
I
can
now
nearest
approach
to
say
it,
is
this.
When
good
is
near
you,
when
you
have
life
in
yourself,
it
is
not
by
any
known
or
accustomed
way;
you
shall
not
discern
the
foot-prints
of
any
other;
you
shall
not
see
the
face
of
man;
you
shall
not
hear
any
name;
—
the way,
the
thought,
the good, shall be
wholly
strange and new.
It shall ex-
clude
example
and
experience.
You
take
the
way
from man,
not
to man.
All
persons
that
ever
existed
are its
forgotten ministers.
Fear and hope
are
alike
beneath
it.
There
is
somewhat
low
even
in hope.
In the
hour of vision,
there
is nothing that can be called gratitude, nor properly joy.
The soul raised over
passion
beholds
identity
and
eternal
causation,
perceives
the
self-existence
of
Truth
and
Right,
and
calms
itself
with
knowing
that
all
things
go
well.
Vast
spaces
of
nature,
the
Atlantic
Ocean,
the
South
Sea,
—
long
intervals
of
time,
years,
centuries,
—
are
of
no
account.
This
which
I
think
and
feel
underlay
every
former
state
of
life
and
circumstances,
as
it
does
underlie
my
present,
and
what
is
called
life,
and
what
is
called
death.
Life
only
avails,
not
the
having
lived.
Power
ceases
in
the
instant
of
repose;
it
resides
in
the
moment
of
transition
from
a
past
to
a
new
state,
in
the
shooting
of
the
gulf,
in
the
darting
to
an
aim.
This
one
fact
the
world
hates,
that
the
soul
becomes
;
for
that
for
ever
degrades
the
past,
turns
all
riches
to
poverty,
all
reputation
to
a
shame,
confounds
the
saint
with
the
rogue,
shoves
Jesus
and
Judas
equally
aside.
Why,
then,
do
we
prate
of
self-
reliance?
Inasmuch
as
the
soul
is
present,
there
will
be
power
not
confident
but
agent.
To
talk
of
reliance
is
a
poor
external
way
of
speaking.
Speak
rather of that which relies,
because it works and is.
Who has more obedience
than
I
masters
me,
though
he
should
not
raise
his
finger.
Round
him
I
must
revolve
by
the
gravitation
of
spirits.
We
fancy
it
rhetoric,
when
we
speak
of
eminent
virtue.
We
do
not
yet
see
that
virtue
is
Height,
and
that
a
man
or
a
company
of
men,
plastic
and
permeable
to
principles,
by
the
law
of
nature
must
overpower
and
ride
all
cities,
nations,
kings,
rich
men,
poets,
who
are
not.
This
is
the
ultimate
fact
which
we
so
quickly
reach
on
this,
as
on
every
topic,
the
resolution
of
all
into
the
ever-blessed
ONE.
Self-existence
is
the
attribute
of
the
Supreme
Cause,
and
it
constitutes
the
measure
of
good
by
the
degree
in
which
it
enters
into
all
lower
forms.
All
things
real
are
so
by
12
so
much
virtue
as
they
contain.
Commerce,
husbandry,
hunting,
whaling,
war,
eloquence,
personal
weight,
are
somewhat,
and
engage
my
respect
as
examples
of
its
presence
and
impure
action.
I
see
the
same
law
working
in
nature for conservation and growth.
Power
is in nature the essential measure
of
right.
Nature
suffers
nothing
to
remain
in
her
kingdoms
which
cannot
help
itself.
The
genesis
and
maturation
of
a
planet,
its
poise
and
orbit,
the
bended tree recovering itself from the strong wind, the vital resources of every
animal
and
vegetable,
are
demonstrations
of
the
self-sufficing,
and
therefore
self-relying
soul.
Thus
all
concentrates:
let
us
not
rove;
let
us
sit
at
home
with
the
cause.
Let
us
stun
and
astonish
the
intruding
rabble
of
men
and
books
and
insti-
tutions,
by
a
simple
declaration
of
the
divine
fact.
Bid
the
invaders
take
the
shoes
from
offtheir
feet,
for
God
is
here
within.
Let
our
simplicity
judge
them,
and
our
docility
to
our
own
law
demonstrate
the
poverty
of
nature
and
fortune
beside
our
native
riches.
But
now
we
are
a
mob.
Man
does
not
stand
in
awe
of
man,
nor
is
his
genius
admonished
to
stay
at
home,
to
put
itself
in
communication
with
the
internal
ocean,
but
it
goes
abroad
to
beg
a
cup
of
water
of
the
urns
of
other
men.
We
must
go
alone.
I
like
the
silent
church
before
the
service
begins,
better
than
any
preaching.
How
far
off,
how
cool,
how
chaste
the
persons
look,
begirt
each
one
with
a
precinct
or
sanctuary!
So
let
us
always
sit.
Why
should
we
assume
the
faults
of
our
friend,
or
wife,
or
father,
or
child,
because
they
sit
around
our
hearth,
or
are
said
to
have
the
same
blood?
All
men
have
my
blood,
and
I
have
all
men’s.
Not
for
that
will
I
adopt
their
petulance
or
folly,
even
to
the
extent
of
being
ashamed
of
it.
But
your
isolation
must
not
be
mechanical,
but
spiritual,
that
is,
must
be
elevation.
At
times
the
whole
world
seems
to
be
in
conspiracy
to
importune
you
with
emphatic
trifles.
Friend,
client,
child,
sickness,
fear,
want,
charity,
all
knock
at
once
at
thy
closet
door,
and
say,
—
‘Come
out
unto
us.’
But
keep
thy
state;
come
not
into
their
confusion.
The
power
men
possess
to
annoy
me,
I
give
them
by
a
weak
curiosity.
No
man
can
come
near
me
but
through
my
act.
“What
we
love
that
we
have,
but
by
desire
we
bereave
ourselves
of
the
love.”
If
we
cannot
at
once
rise
to
the
sanctities
of
obedience
and
faith,
let
us
at
least
resist
our
temptations;
let
us
enter
into
the
state
of
war,
and
wake
Thor and Woden, courage and constancy,
in our Saxon breasts.
This is to be
done in our smooth times by speaking the truth.
Check this lying hospitality
and
lying
affection.
Live
no
longer
to
the
expectation
of
these
deceived
and
13
deceiving
people
with
whom
we
converse.
Say
to
them,
O
father,
O
mother,
O wife, O brother, O friend, I have lived with you after appearances hitherto.
Henceforward
I
am
the
truth’s.
Be
it
known
unto
you
that
henceforward
I
obey
no
law
less
than
the
eternal
law.
I
will
have
no
covenants
but
proxim-
ities.
I
shall
endeavour
to
nourish
my
parents,
to
support
my
family,
to
be
the
chaste
husband
of
one
wife,
—
but
these
relations
I
must
fill
after
a
new
and
unprecedented
way.
I
appeal
from
your
customs.
I
must
be
myself.
I
cannot
break
myself
any
longer
for
you,
or
you.
If
you
can
love
me
for
what
I
am,
we
shall
be
the
happier.
If
you
cannot,
I
will
still
seek
to
deserve
that
you
should.
I
will
not
hide
my
tastes
or
aversions.
I
will
so
trust
that
what
is deep is holy,
that I will do strongly before the sun and moon whatever
inly
rejoices
me,
and
the
heart
appoints.
If
you
are
noble,
I
will
love
you;
if
you
are
not,
I
will
not
hurt
you
and
myself
by
hypocritical
attentions.
If
you
are
true,
but
not
in
the
same
truth
with
me,
cleave
to
your
companions;
I
will
seek
my
own.
I
do
this
not
selfishly,
but
humbly
and
truly.
It
is
alike
your
interest,
and
mine,
and
all
men’s,
however
long
we
have
dwelt
in
lies,
to
live
in
truth.
Does
this
sound
harsh
to-day?
You
will
soon
love
what
is
dictated
by
your
nature
as
well
as
mine,
and,
if
we
follow
the
truth,
it
will
bring
us
out safe at last.
— But so you may give these friends pain.
Yes,
but I cannot
sell
my
liberty
and
my
power,
to
save
their
sensibility.
Besides,
all
persons
have their moments of reason, when they look out into the region of absolute
truth;
then
will
they
justify
me,
and
do
the
same
thing.
The populace think that your rejection of popular standards is a rejection
of all standard, and mere antinomianism;
and the bold sensualist will use the
name
of
philosophy
to
gild
his
crimes.
But
the
law
of
consciousness
abides.
There are two confessionals,
in one or the other of which
we must be shriven.
You
may
fulfil
your
round
of
duties
by
clearing
yourself
in
the
direct
,
or
in
the
reflex
way.
Consider
whether
you
have
satisfied
your
relations
to
father,
mother,
cousin,
neighbour,
town,
cat,
and
dog;
whether
any
of
these
can
upbraid
you.
But
I
may
also
neglect
this
reflex
standard,
and
absolve
me
to
myself.
I
have
my
own
stern
claims
and
perfect
circle.
It
denies
the
name
of
duty
to
many
offices
that
are
called
duties.
But
if
I
can
discharge
its
debts,
it
enables
me
to
dispense
with
the
popular
code.
If
any
one
imagines
that
this
law
is
lax,
let
him
keep
its
commandment
one
day.
And truly it demands something godlike in him who has cast offthe com-
mon motives of humanity, and has ventured to trust himself for a taskmaster.
High be his heart, faithful his will, clear his sight, that he may in good earnest
be
doctrine,
society,
law,
to himself,
that
a simple
purpose
may
be
to him
as
14
strong
as
iron
necessity
is
to
others!
If
any
man
consider
the
present
aspects
of
what
is
called
by
distinction
society
, he will see the need of these ethics.
The sinew and heart of man seem
to
be
drawn
out,
and
we
are
become
timorous,
desponding
whimperers.
We
are
afraid
of
truth,
afraid
of
fortune,
afraid
of
death,
and
afraid
of
each
other.
Our
age
yields
no
great
and
perfect
persons.
We
want
men
and
women
who
shall
renovate
life
and
our
social
state,
but
we
see
that
most
natures
are
insolvent,
cannot
satisfy
their
own
wants,
have
an
ambition
out
of
all
proportion
to
their
practical
force,
and
do
lean
and
beg
day
and
night
continually.
Our
housekeeping
is
mendicant,
our
arts,
our
occupations,
our
marriages,
our
religion,
we
have
not
chosen,
but
society
has
chosen
for
us.
We
are
parlour
soldiers.
We
shun
the
rugged
battle
of
fate,
where
strength
is
born.
If our young
men
miscarry
in their
first enterprises,
they
lose
all heart.
If
the young merchant fails,
men say he is
ruined
.
If the finest genius studies
at
one of our colleges, and is not installed in an office within one year afterwards
in the cities
or suburbs
of Boston or New York,
it seems
to his friends
and to
himself
that
he
is
right
in
being
disheartened,
and
in
complaining
the
rest
of
his
life.
A
sturdy
lad
from
New
Hampshire
or
Vermont,
who
in
turn
tries
all
the professions, who
teams it
,
farms it
,
peddles
, keeps a school, preaches, edits
a
newspaper,
goes
to
Congress,
buys
a
township,
and
so
forth,
in
successive
years, and always,
like a cat, falls on his feet, is worth a hundred of these city
dolls.
He
walks
abreast
with
his
days,
and
feels
no
shame
in
not
‘studying
a
profession,’ for he does not postpone his life, but lives already.
He has not one
chance,
but
a
hundred
chances.
Let
a
Stoic
open
the
resources
of
man,
and
tell
men
they
are
not
leaning
willows,
but
can
and
must
detach
themselves;
that
with
the
exercise
of
self-trust,
new
powers
shall
appear;
that
a
man
is
the
word
made
flesh,
born
to
shed
healing
to
the
nations,
that
he
should
be
ashamed
of
our
compassion,
and
that
the
moment
he
acts
from
himself,
tossing
the
laws,
the
books,
idolatries,
and
customs
out
of
the
window,
we
pity him no more, but thank and revere him, — and that teacher shall restore
the
life
of
man
to
splendor,
and
make
his
name
dear
to
all
history.
It
is
easy
to
see
that
a
greater
self-reliance
must
work
a
revolution
in
all
the
offices
and
relations
of
men;
in
their
religion;
in
their
education;
in
their
pursuits;
their
modes
of
living;
their
association;
in
their
property;
in
their
speculative
views.
1.
In what
prayers
do men
allow themselves!
That which
they
call a holy
office
is
not
so
much
as
brave
and
manly.
Prayer
looks
abroad
and
asks
for
15
some foreign addition to come through some foreign virtue, and loses itself in
endless
mazes
of
natural
and
supernatural,
and
mediatorial
and
miraculous.
Prayer
that
craves
a
particular
commodity,
—
any
thing
less
than
all
good,
— is vicious.
Prayer
is
the contemplation
of the facts of life from the
highest
point
of
view.
It
is
the
soliloquy
of
a
beholding
and
jubilant
soul.
It
is
the
spirit
of
God
pronouncing
his
works
good.
But
prayer
as
a
means
to
effect
a
private
end
is
meanness
and
theft.
It
supposes
dualism
and
not
unity
in
nature and consciousness.
As soon as the man is at one with God, he will not
beg.
He
will
then
see
prayer
in
all
action.
The
prayer
of
the
farmer
kneeling
in
his
field
to
weed
it,
the
prayer
of
the
rower
kneeling
with
the
stroke
of
his
oar,
are
true
prayers
heard
throughout
nature,
though
for
cheap
ends.
Caratach,
in
Fletcher’s
Bonduca,
when
admonished
to
inquire
the
mind
of
the
god
Audate,
replies,
—
“His
hidden
meaning
lies
in
our
endeavours;
Our
valors
are
our
best
gods.”
Another
sort
of
false
prayers
are
our
regrets.
Discontent
is
the
want
of
self-reliance:
it is
infirmity
of will.
Regret calamities,
if you can thereby
help
the
sufferer;
if
not,
attend
your
own
work,
and
already
the
evil
begins
to
be
repaired.
Our sympathy is just as base.
We come to them who weep foolishly,
and
sit
down
and
cry
for
company,
instead
of
imparting
to
them
truth
and
health
in
rough
electric
shocks,
putting
them
once
more
in
communication
with
their
own
reason.
The
secret
of
fortune
is
joy
in
our
hands.
Welcome
evermore
to
gods
and
men
is
the
self-helping
man.
For
him
all
doors
are
flung
wide:
him
all
tongues
greet,
all
honors
crown,
all
eyes
follow
with
desire.
Our love
goes
out
to him
and
embraces
him,
because
he
did
not
need
it.
We
solicitously
and
apologetically
caress
and
celebrate
him,
because
he
held
on
his
way
and
scorned
our
disapprobation.
The
gods
love
him
because
men
hated
him.
“To
the
persevering
mortal,”
said
Zoroaster,
“the
blessed
Immortals
are
swift.”
As
men’s
prayers
are
a
disease
of
the
will,
so
are
their
creeds
a
disease
of
the
intellect.
They
say
with
those
foolish
Israelites,
‘Let
not
God
speak
to
us,
lest
we
die.
Speak
thou,
speak
any
man
with
us,
and
we
will
obey.’
Everywhere
I
am
hindered
of
meeting
God
in
my
brother,
because
he
has
shut
his
own
temple
doors,
and
recites
fables
merely
of
his
brother’s,
or
his
brother’s
brother’s
God.
Every
new
mind
is
a
new
classification.
If
it
prove
a
mind
of
uncommon
activity
and
power,
a
Locke,
a
Lavoisier,
a
Hutton,
16
a
Bentham,
a
Fourier,
it
imposes
its
classification
on
other
men,
and
lo!
a
new
system.
In
proportion
to
the
depth
of
the
thought,
and
so
to
the
number
of
the
objects
it
touches
and
brings
within
reach
of
the
pupil,
is
his
complacency.
But
chiefly
is
this
apparent
in
creeds
and
churches,
which
are
also
classifications
of
some
powerful
mind
acting
on
the
elemental
thought
of
duty,
and
man’s
relation
to
the
Highest.
Such
is
Calvinism,
Quakerism,
Swedenborgism.
The
pupil
takes
the
same
delight
in
subordinating
every
thing to the new
terminology,
as a girl who has just
learned
botany in seeing
a
new
earth
and
new
seasons
thereby.
It
will
happen
for
a
time,
that
the
pupil
will
find
his
intellectual
power
has
grown
by
the
study
of
his
master’s
mind.
But
in
all
unbalanced
minds,
the
classification
is
idolized,
passes
for
the
end,
and
not
for
a
speedily
exhaustible
means,
so
that
the
walls
of
the
system blend to their eye in the remote horizon with the walls of the universe;
the
luminaries
of
heaven
seem
to
them
hung
on
the
arch
their
master
built.
They
cannot
imagine
how
you
aliens
have
any
right
to
see,
—
how
you
can
see;
‘It
must
be
somehow
that
you
stole
the
light
from
us.’
They
do
not
yet
perceive,
that
light,
unsystematic,
indomitable,
will
break
into
any
cabin,
even
into
theirs.
Let
them
chirp
awhile
and
call
it
their
own.
If
they
are
honest
and
do
well,
presently
their
neat
new
pinfold
will
be
too
strait
and
low,
will
crack,
will
lean,
will
rot
and
vanish,
and
the
immortal
light,
all
young
and
joyful,
million-orbed,
million-colored,
will
beam
over
the
universe
as
on
the
first
morning.
2.
It
is
for
want
of
self-culture
that
the
superstition
of
Travelling,
whose
idols are Italy, England, Egypt, retains its fascination for all educated Ameri-
cans.
They who made England, Italy, or Greece venerable in the imagination
did
so
by
sticking
fast
where
they
were,
like
an
axis
of
the
earth.
In
manly
hours,
we
feel
that
duty
is
our
place.
The
soul
is
no
traveller;
the
wise
man
stays
at
home,
and
when
his
necessities,
his
duties,
on
any
occasion
call
him
from his
house,
or into
foreign
lands,
he
is
at
home
still,
and
shall
make
men
sensible
by
the
expression
of
his
countenance,
that
he
goes
the
missionary
of
wisdom
and
virtue,
and
visits
cities
and
men
like
a
sovereign,
and
not
like
an
interloper
or
a
valet.
I
have
no
churlish
objection
to
the
circumnavigation
of
the
globe,
for
the
purposes
of
art,
of
study,
and
benevolence,
so
that
the
man
is
first
domesti-
cated, or does not go abroad with the hope of finding somewhat greater than
he
knows.
He
who
travels
to
be
amused,
or
to
get
somewhat
which
he
does
not
carry,
travels
away
from
himself,
and
grows
old
even
in
youth
among
old
things.
In
Thebes,
in
Palmyra,
his
will
and
mind
have
become
old
and
17
dilapidated
as
they.
He
carries
ruins
to
ruins.
Travelling
is
a
fool’s
paradise.
Our
first
journeys
discover
to
us
the
in-
difference
of
places.
At
home
I
dream
that
at
Naples,
at
Rome,
I
can
be
intoxicated
with
beauty,
and
lose
my
sadness.
I
pack
my
trunk,
embrace
my
friends,
embark
on
the
sea,
and
at
last
wake
up
in
Naples,
and
there
beside
me
is
the
stern
fact,
the
sad
self,
unrelenting,
identical,
that
I
fled
from.
I
seek
the
Vatican,
and
the
palaces.
I
affect
to
be
intoxicated
with
sights
and
suggestions,
but
I am not
intoxicated.
My
giant goes with
me
wherever
I go.
3.
But
the
rage
of
travelling
is
a
symptom
of
a
deeper
unsoundness
affecting
the
whole
intellectual
action.
The
intellect
is
vagabond,
and
our
system
of
education
fosters
restlessness.
Our
minds
travel
when
our
bodies
are
forced
to
stay
at
home.
We
imitate;
and
what
is
imitation
but
the
travelling
of
the
mind?
Our
houses
are
built
with
foreign
taste;
our
shelves
are
garnished
with
foreign
ornaments;
our opinions,
our tastes,
our faculties,
lean, and follow the Past and the Distant.
The soul created the arts wherever
they have flourished.
It was in his own mind that the artist sought his model.
It
was
an
application
of
his
own
thought
to
the
thing
to
be
done
and
the
conditions
to
be
observed.
And
why
need
we
copy
the
Doric
or
the
Gothic
model?
Beauty,
convenience,
grandeur of thought, and quaint expression
are
as
near
to
us
as
to
any,
and
if
the
American
artist
will
study
with
hope
and
love
the
precise
thing
to
be
done
by
him,
considering
the
climate,
the
soil,
the
length
of
the
day,
the
wants
of
the
people,
the
habit
and
form
of
the
government,
he
will
create
a
house
in
which
all
these
will
find
themselves
fitted,
and
taste
and
sentiment
will
be
satisfied
also.
Insist
on
yourself;
never
imitate.
Your
own
gift
you
can
present
every
moment
with
the
cumulative
force
of
a
whole
life’s
cultivation;
but
of
the
adopted talent of another, you have only an extemporaneous, half possession.
That
which
each
can
do
best,
none
but
his
Maker
can
teach
him.
No
man
yet
knows
what
it
is,
nor
can,
till
that
person
has
exhibited
it.
Where
is
the
master
who
could
have
taught
Shakspeare?
Where
is
the
master
who
could
have
instructed
Franklin,
or Washington,
or
Bacon,
or
Newton?
Every
great
man
is
a
unique.
The
Scipionism
of
Scipio
is
precisely
that
part
he
could
not
borrow.
Shakspeare
will
never
be
made
by
the
study
of
Shakspeare.
Do
that which is assigned you, and you cannot hope too much or dare too much.
There
is
at this
moment
for
you
an
utterance
brave
and
grand
as
that
of the
colossal
chisel
of
Phidias,
or
trowel
of
the
Egyptians,
or
the
pen
of
Moses,
or
Dante,
but
different
from
all
these.
Not
possibly
will
the
soul
all
rich,
all
eloquent,
with
thousand-cloven
tongue,
deign
to
repeat
itself;
but
if
you
18
can hear what these
patriarchs
say,
surely
you
can reply to them
in the same
pitch of voice;
for the ear and the tongue are two organs of one nature.
Abide
in
the
simple
and
noble
regions
of
thy
life,
obey
thy
heart,
and
thou
shalt
reproduce
the
Foreworld
again.
4.
As our Religion, our Education, our Art look abroad, so does our spirit
of
society.
All
men
plume
themselves
on
the
improvement
of
society,
and
no
man
improves.
Society
never
advances.
It
recedes
as
fast
on
one
side
as
it
gains
on
the
other.
It
undergoes
continual
changes;
it
is
barbarous,
it
is
civilized,
it
is
christianized,
it
is
rich,
it
is
scientific;
but
this
change
is
not
amelioration.
For
every
thing
that
is
given,
something
is
taken.
Society
acquires
new
arts,
and
loses
old
instincts.
What
a
contrast
between
the
well-clad,
reading,
writing,
thinking
American,
with
a watch,
a pencil,
and a
bill
of exchange
in
his
pocket,
and
the
naked
New
Zealander,
whose
property
is
a
club,
a
spear,
a
mat,
and
an
undivided
twentieth
of
a
shed
to
sleep
under!
But
compare
the
health
of
the
two
men,
and
you
shall
see
that
the
white
man
has
lost
his
aboriginal
strength.
If
the
traveller
tell
us
truly,
strike
the
savage
with
a
broad
axe,
and
in
a
day
or
two
the
flesh
shall
unite
and
heal
as
if
you
struck
the blow into soft pitch,
and the same
blow shall send
the white to his
grave.
The
civilized
man
has
built
a
coach,
but
has
lost
the
use
of
his
feet.
He
is supported
on
crutches,
but
lacks
so
much
support
of muscle.
He
has a fine
Geneva
watch,
but
he
fails
of
the
skill
to
tell
the
hour
by
the
sun.
A
Green-
wich
nautical
almanac
he
has,
and
so
being
sure
of
the
information
when
he
wants
it,
the
man
in
the
street
does
not
know
a
star
in
the
sky.
The
solstice
he
does
not
observe;
the
equinox
he
knows
as
little;
and
the
whole
bright
calendar
of
the
year
is
without
a
dial
in
his
mind.
His
note-books
impair
his
memory;
his
libraries
overload
his
wit;
the
insurance-office
increases
the
number
of
accidents;
and
it
may
be
a
question
whether
machinery
does
not
encumber;
whether
we
have
not
lost
by
refinement
some
energy,
by
a
Chris-
tianity
entrenched
in
establishments
and
forms,
some
vigor
of
wild
virtue.
For
every
Stoic
was
a
Stoic;
but
in
Christendom
where
is
the
Christian?
There
is no more deviation in the moral standard than in the standard of
height
or
bulk.
No
greater
men
are
now
than
ever
were.
A
singular
equality
may
be
observed
between
the
great
men
of
the
first
and
of
the
last
ages;
nor
can
all
the
science,
art,
religion,
and
philosophy
of
the
nineteenth
cen-
tury
avail
to
educate
greater
men
than
Plutarch’s
heroes,
three
or
four
and
twenty
centuries
ago.
Not in time
is
the race
progressive.
Phocion,
Socrates,
Anaxagoras,
Diogenes,
are
great
men,
but
they
leave
no
class.
He
who
is
re-
19
ally
of
their
class
will
not
be
called
by
their
name,
but
will
be
his
own
man,
and, in his turn, the founder of a sect.
The arts and inventions of each period
are
only
its
costume,
and
do
not
invigorate
men.
The
harm
of
the
improved
machinery
may
compensate
its
good.
Hudson
and
Behring
accomplished
so
much
in
their
fishing-boats,
as
to
astonish
Parry
and
Franklin,
whose
equip-
ment exhausted the resources of science and art.
Galileo, with an opera-glass,
discovered
a
more
splendid
series
of
celestial
phenomena
than
any
one
since.
Columbus found the New World in an undecked
boat.
It is curious to see the
periodical
disuse
and
perishing
of
means
and
machinery,
which
were
intro-
duced
with
loud
laudation
a
few
years
or
centuries
before.
The
great
genius
returns
to
essential
man.
We
reckoned
the
improvements
of
the
art
of
war
among
the
triumphs
of
science,
and
yet
Napoleon
conquered
Europe
by
the
bivouac,
which
consisted
of
falling
back
on
naked
valor,
and
disencumbering
it
of
all
aids.
The
Emperor
held
it
impossible
to
make
a
perfect
army,
says
Las
Casas,
“without
abolishing
our
arms,
magazines,
commissaries,
and
car-
riages,
until,
in
imitation
of
the
Roman
custom,
the
soldier
should
receive
his
supply
of
corn,
grind
it
in
his
hand-mill,
and
bake
his
bread
himself.”
Society
is
a
wave.
The
wave
moves
onward,
but
the
water
of
which
it
is
composed
does
not.
The
same
particle
does
not
rise
from
the
valley
to
the
ridge.
Its
unity
is
only
phenomenal.
The
persons
who
make
up
a
nation
to-day,
next
year
die,
and
their
experience
with
them.
And
so
the
reliance
on
Property,
including
the
reliance
on
governments
which
protect
it,
is
the
want
of
self-reliance.
Men
have
looked
away
from
themselves and at things so long, that they have come to esteem the religious,
learned,
and
civil
institutions
as
guards
of
property,
and
they
deprecate
as-
saults
on
these,
because
they
feel
them
to
be
assaults
on
property.
They
measure
their
esteem
of
each
other
by
what
each
has,
and
not
by
what
each
is.
But a cultivated man becomes ashamed of his property, out of new respect
for his nature.
Especially
he hates what he has,
if he see that it is accidental,
—
came
to
him
by
inheritance,
or
gift,
or
crime;
then
he
feels
that
it
is
not
having;
it
does
not
belong
to
him,
has
no
root
in
him,
and
merely
lies
there,
because
no
revolution
or
no
robber
takes
it
away.
But
that
which
a
man
is,
does
always
by
necessity
acquire,
and
what
the
man
acquires
is
living
prop-
erty,
which
does
not
wait
the
beck
of
rulers,
or
mobs,
or
revolutions,
or
fire,
or
storm,
or
bankruptcies,
but
perpetually
renews
itself
wherever
the
man
breathes.
“Thy
lot
or
portion
of
life,”
said
the
Caliph
Ali,
“is
seeking
after
thee;
therefore
be
at
rest
from
seeking
after
it.”
Our
dependence
on
these
foreign
goods
leads
us
to
our
slavish
respect
for
numbers.
The
political
par-
20
ties
meet
in
numerous
conventions;
the
greater
the
concourse,
and
with
each
new
uproar
of
announcement,
The
delegation
from
Essex!
The
Democrats
from
New
Hampshire!
The
Whigs
of
Maine!
the
young
patriot
feels
himself
stronger
than
before
by
a
new
thousand
of
eyes
and
arms.
In
like
manner
the
reformers
summon
conventions,
and
vote
and
resolve
in
multitude.
Not
so,
O
friends!
will
the
God
deign
to
enter
and
inhabit
you,
but
by
a
method
precisely
the
reverse.
It
is
only
as
a
man
puts
offall
foreign
support,
and
stands
alone,
that
I
see
him
to
be
strong
and
to
prevail.
He
is
weaker
by
every
recruit
to
his
banner.
Is
not
a
man
better
than
a
town?
Ask
nothing
of
men,
and
in
the
endless
mutation,
thou
only
firm
column
must
presently
appear
the
upholder
of
all
that
surrounds
thee.
He
who
knows
that
power
is
inborn,
that
he
is
weak
because
he
has
looked
for
good
out
of
him
and
elsewhere,
and
so
perceiving,
throws
himself
unhesitatingly
on
his
thought,
instantly
rights
himself,
stands
in
the
erect
position,
commands
his
limbs,
works
miracles;
just
as
a
man
who
stands
on
his
feet
is
stronger
than
a
man
who
stands
on
his
head.
So
use
all
that
is
called
Fortune.
Most
men
gamble
with
her,
and
gain
all,
and
lose
all,
as
her
wheel
rolls.
But
do
thou
leave
as
unlawful
these
winnings,
and
deal
with
Cause
and
Effect,
the
chancellors
of
God.
In
the
Will work and acquire, and thou hast chained the wheel of Chance, and shalt
sit hereafter out of fear from her rotations.
A political victory, a rise of rents,
the
recovery
of
your
sick,
or
the
return
of
your
absent
friend,
or
some
other
favorable event, raises your spirits, and you think good days are preparing for
you.
Do
not
believe
it.
Nothing
can
bring
you
peace
but
yourself.
Nothing
can
bring
you
peace
but
the
triumph
of
principles.
21