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THE METHOD OF NATURE..........................................................................................................................1

Ralph Waldo Emerson.............................................................................................................................1

Let us exchange congratulations on the enjoyments and the pros literary anniversary. The land we live in has

no interest so dear, if it knew its want, as the fit consecration of days of reason and thought. Where there is no

vision, the people perish. The scholars are the priests of that thought which establishes the foundations of the

earth. No matter what is their special work or profession, they stand for the spiritual interest of the world, and

it is a common calamity if they neglect their post in a country where the material interest is so predominant as

it is in America. We hear something too much of the results of machinery, commerce, and the useful arts. We

are a puny and a fickle folk. Avarice, hesitation, and following, are our diseases. The rapid wealth which

hundreds in the community acquire in trade, or by the incessant expansions of our population and arts,

enchants the eyes of all the rest; the luck of one is the hope of thousands, and the bribe acts like the

neighborhood of a gold mine to impoverish the farm, the school, the church, the house, and the very body and

I do not wish to look with sour aspect at the industrious manufacturing village, or the mart of commerce. I

love the music of the waterwheel; I value the railway; I feel the pride which the sight of a ship inspires; I

look on trade and every mechanical craft as education also. But let me discriminate what is precious herein.

There is in each of these works an act of invention, an intellectual step, or short series of steps taken; that act

or step is the spiritual act; all the rest is mere repetition of the same a thousand times. And I will not be

deceived into admiring the routine of handicrafts and mechanics, how splendid soever the result, any more

than I admire the routine of the scholars or clerical class. That splendid results ensue from the labors of stupid

men, is the fruit of higher laws than their will, and the routine is not to be praised for it. I would not have the

laborer sacrificed to the result, I would not have the laborer sacrificed to my convenience and pride, nor to

that of a great class of such as me. Let there be worse cotton and better men. The weaver should not be

bereaved of his superiority to his work, and his knowledge that the product or the skill is of no value, except

so far as it embodies his spiritual prerogatives. If I see nothing to admire in the unit, shall I admire a million

units? Men stand in awe of the city, but do not honor any individual citizen; and are continually yielding to

this dazzling result of numbers, that which they would never yield to the solitary example of any one.

Whilst the multitude of men degrade each other, and give currency to desponding doctrines, the scholar must

be a bringer of hope, and must reinforce man against himself. I sometimes believe that our literary

anniversaries will presently assume a greater importance, as the eyes of men open to their capabilities. Here,

a new set of distinctions, a new order of ideas, prevail. Here, we set a bound to the respectability of wealth,

and a bound to the pretensions of the law and the church. The bigot must cease to be a bigot today. Into our

charmed circle, power cannot enter; and the sturdiest defender of existing institutions feels the terrific

inflammability of this air which condenses heat in every corner that may restore to the elements the fabrics of

ages. Nothing solid is secure; every thing tilts and rocks. Even the scholar is not safe; he too is searched and

revised. Is his learning dead? Is he living in his memory? The power of mind is not mortification, but life.

But come forth, thou curious child! hither, thou loving, allhoping poet! hither, thou tender, doubting heart,

who hast not yet found any place in the world's market fit for thee; any wares which thou couldst buy or sell,

so large is thy love and ambition, thine and not theirs is the hour. Smooth thy brow, and hope and love

on, for the kind heaven justifies thee, and the whole world feels that thou art in the right.

We ought to celebrate this hour by expressions of manly joy. Not thanks, not prayer seem quite the highest or

truest name for our communication with the infinite, but glad and conspiring reception, reception that

becomes giving in its turn, as the receiver is only the AllGiver in part and in infancy. I cannot, nor can

any man, speak precisely of things so sublime, but it seems to me, the wit of man, his strength, his grace,

his tendency, his art, is the grace and the presence of God. It is beyond explanation. When all is said and

done, the rapt saint is found the only logician. Not exhortation, not argument becomes our lips, but paeans of

joy and praise. But not of adulation: we are too nearly related in the deep of the mind to that we honor. It is

God in us which checks the language of petition by a grander thought. In the bottom of the heart, it is said; `I

am, and by me, O child! this fair body and world of thine stands and grows. I am; all things are mine: and all

The festival of the intellect, and the return to its source, cast a strong light on the always interesting topics of

Man and Nature. We are forcibly reminded of the old want. There is no man; there hath never been. The

Intellect still asks that a man may be born. The flame of life flickers feebly in human breasts. We demand of

men a richness and universality we do not find. Great men do not content us. It is their solitude, not their

force, that makes them conspicuous. There is somewhat indigent and tedious about them. They are poorly

tied to one thought. If they are prophets, they are egotists; if polite and various, they are shallow. How tardily

men arrive at any result! how tardily they pass from it to another! The crystal sphere of thought is as

concentrical as the geological structure of the globe. As our soils and rocks lie in strata, concentric strata, so

do all men's thinkings run laterally, never vertically. Here comes by a great inquisitor with auger and

plumbline, and will bore an Artesian well through our conventions and theories, and pierce to the core of

things. But as soon as he probes the crust, behold gimlet, plumbline, and philosopher take a lateral direction,

in spite of all resistance, as if some strong wind took everything off its feet, and if you come month after

month to see what progress our reformer has made, not an inch has he pierced, you still find him with

new words in the old place, floating about in new parts of the same old vein or crust. The new book says, `I

will give you the key to nature,' and we expect to go like a thunderbolt to the centre. But the thunder is a

surface phenomenon, makes a skindeep cut, and so does the sage. The wedge turns out to be a rocket. Thus

a man lasts but a very little while, for his monomania becomes insupportably tedious in a few months. It is so

with every book and person: and yet and yet we do not take up a new book, or meet a new man,

without a pulsebeat of expectation. And this invincible hope of a more adequate interpreter is the sure

In the absence of man, we turn to nature, which stands next. In the divine order, intellect is primary; nature,

secondary; it is the memory of the mind. That which once existed in intellect as pure law, has now taken body

as Nature. It existed already in the mind in solution; now, it has been precipitated, and the bright sediment is

the world. We can never be quite strangers or inferiors in nature. It is flesh of our flesh, and bone of our bone.

But we no longer hold it by the hand; we have lost our miraculous power; our arm is no more as strong as the

frost; nor our will equivalent to gravity and the elective attractions. Yet we can use nature as a convenient

standard, and the meter of our rise and fall. It has this advantage as a witness, it cannot be debauched. When

man curses, nature still testifies to truth and love. We may, therefore, safely study the mind in nature, because

we cannot steadily gaze on it in mind; as we explore the face of the sun in a pool, when our eyes cannot

It seems to me, therefore, that it were some suitable paean, if we should piously celebrate this hour by

exploring the _method of nature_. Let us see _that_, as nearly as we can, and try how far it is transferable to

the literary life. Every earnest glance we give to the realities around us, with intent to learn, proceeds from a

holy impulse, and is really songs of praise. What difference can it make whether it take the shape of

exhortation, or of passionate exclamation, or of scientific statement? These are forms merely. Through them

In treating a subject so large, in which we must necessarily appeal to the intuition, and aim much more to

suggest, than to describe, I know it is not easy to speak with the precision attainable on topics of less scope. I

do not wish in attempting to paint a man, to describe an airfed, unimpassioned, impossible ghost. My eyes

and ears are revolted by any neglect of the physical facts, the limitations of man. And yet one who conceives

the true order of nature, and beholds the visible as proceeding from the invisible, cannot state his thought,

without seeming to those who study the physical laws, to do them some injustice. There is an intrinsic defect

in the organ. Language overstates. Statements of the infinite are usually felt to be unjust to the finite, and

blasphemous. Empedocles undoubtedly spoke a truth of thought, when he said, "I am God;" but the moment

it was out of his mouth, it became a lie to the ear; and the world revenged itself for the seeming arrogance, by

the good story about his shoe. How can I hope for better hap in my attempts to enunciate spiritual facts? Yet

let us hope, that as far as we receive the truth, so far shall we be felt by every true person to say what is just.

The method of nature: who could ever analyze it? That rushing stream will not stop to be observed. We can

never surprise nature in a corner; never find the end of a thread; never tell where to set the first stone. The

bird hastens to lay her egg: the egg hastens to be a bird. The wholeness we admire in the order of the world, is

the result of infinite distribution. Its smoothness is the smoothness of the pitch of the cataract. Its permanence

is a perpetual inchoation. Every natural fact is an emanation, and that from which it emanates is an emanation

also, and from every emanation is a new emanation. If anything could stand still, it would be crushed and

dissipated by the torrent it resisted, and if it were a mind, would be crazed; as insane persons are those who

hold fast to one thought, and do not flow with the course of nature. Not the cause, but an ever novel effect,

nature descends always from above. It is unbroken obedience. The beauty of these fair objects is imported

into them from a metaphysical and eternal spring. In all animal and vegetable forms, the physiologist

concedes that no chemistry, no mechanics, can account for the facts, but a mysterious principle of life must

How silent, how spacious, what room for all, yet without place to insert an atom, in graceful succession,

in equal fulness, in balanced beauty, the dance of the hours goes forward still. Like an odor of incense, like a

strain of music, like a sleep, it is inexact and boundless. It will not be dissected, nor unravelled, nor shown.

Away profane philosopher! seekest thou in nature the cause? This refers to that, and that to the next, and the

next to the third, and everything refers. Thou must ask in another mood, thou must feel it and love it, thou

must behold it in a spirit as grand as that by which it exists, ere thou canst know the law. Known it will not

The simultaneous life throughout the whole body, the equal serving of innumerable ends without the least

emphasis or preference to any, but the steady degradation of each to the success of all, allows the

understanding no place to work. Nature can only be conceived as existing to a universal and not to a

particular end, to a universe of ends, and not to one, a work of _ecstasy_, to be represented by a circular

movement, as intention might be signified by a straight line of definite length. Each effect strengthens every

other. There is no revolt in all the kingdoms from the commonweal: no detachment of an individual. Hence

the catholic character which makes every leaf an exponent of the world. When we behold the landscape in a

poetic spirit, we do not reckon individuals. Nature knows neither palm nor oak, but only vegetable life, which

sprouts into forests, and festoons the globe with a garland of grasses and vines.

That no single end may be selected, and nature judged thereby, appears from this, that if man himself be

considered as the end, and it be assumed that the final cause of the world is to make holy or wise or beautiful

men, we see that it has not succeeded. Read alternately in natural and in civil history, a treatise of astronomy,

for example, with a volume of French _Memoires pour servir_. When we have spent our wonder in

computing this wasteful hospitality with which boon nature turns off new firmaments without end into her

wide common, as fast as the madrepores make coral, suns and planets hospitable to souls, and then

shorten the sight to look into this court of Louis Quatorze, and see the game that is played there, duke and

marshal, abbe and madame, a gambling table where each is laying traps for the other, where the end is

ever by some lie or fetch to outwit your rival and ruin him with this solemn fop in wig and stars, the king;

one can hardly help asking if this planet is a fair specimen of the so generous astronomy, and if so, whether

the experiment have not failed, and whether it be quite worth while to make more, and glut the innocent space

I think we feel not much otherwise if, instead of beholding foolish nations, we take the great and wise men,

the eminent souls, and narrowly inspect their biography. None of them seen by himself and his

performance compared with his promise or idea, will justify the cost of that enormous apparatus of means by

To questions of this sort, nature replies, `I grow.' All is nascent, infant. When we are dizzied with the

arithmetic of the savant toiling to compute the length of her line, the return of her curve, we are steadied by

the perception that a great deal is doing; that all seems just begun; remote aims are in active accomplishment.

We can point nowhere to anything final; but tendency appears on all hands: planet, system, constellation,

total nature is growing like a field of maize in July; is becoming somewhat else; is in rapid metamorphosis.

The embryo does not more strive to be man, than yonder burr of light we call a nebula tends to be a ring, a

comet, a globe, and parent of new stars. Why should not then these messieurs of Versailles strut and plot for

tabourets and ribbons, for a season, without prejudice to their faculty to run on better errands by and by?

But nature seems further to reply, `I have ventured so great a stake as my success, in no single creature. I

have not yet arrived at any end. The gardener aims to produce a fine peach or pear, but my aim is the health

of the whole tree, root, stem, leaf, flower, and seed, and by no means the pampering of a monstrous

In short, the spirit and peculiarity of that impression nature makes on us, is this, that it does not exist to any

one or to any number of particular ends, but to numberless and endless benefit; that there is in it no private

will, no rebel leaf or limb, but the whole is oppressed by one superincumbent tendency, obeys that

With this conception of the genius or method of nature, let us go back to man. It is true, he pretends to give

account of himself to himself, but, at last, what has he to recite but the fact that there is a Life not to be

described or known otherwise than by possession? What account can he give of his essence more than _so it

was to be_? The _royal_ reason, the Grace of God seems the only description of our multiform but ever

identical fact. There is virtue, there is genius, there is success, or there is not. There is the incoming or the

receding of God: that is all we can affirm; and we can show neither how nor why. Selfaccusation, remorse,

and the didactic morals of selfdenial and strife with sin, is a view we are constrained by our constitution to

take of the fact seen from the platform of action; but seen from the platform of intellection, there is nothing

The termination of the world in a man, appears to be the last victory of intelligence. The universal does not

attract us until housed in an individual. Who heeds the waste abyss of possibility? The ocean is everywhere

the same, but it has no character until seen with the shore or the ship. Who would value any number of miles

of Atlantic brine bounded by lines of latitude and longitude? Confine it by granite rocks, let it wash a shore

where wise men dwell, and it is filled with expression; and the point of greatest interest is where the land and

water meet. So must we admire in man, the form of the formless, the concentration of the vast, the house of

reason, the cave of memory. See the play of thoughts! what nimble gigantic creatures are these! what

saurians, what palaiotheria shall be named with these agile movers? The great Pan of old, who was clothed in

a leopard skin to signify the beautiful variety of things, and the firmament, his coat of stars, was but the

representative of thee, O rich and various Man! thou palace of sight and sound, carrying in thy senses the

morning and the night and the unfathomable galaxy; in thy brain, the geometry of the City of God; in thy

heart, the bower of love and the realms of right and wrong. An individual man is a fruit which it cost all the

foregoing ages to form and ripen. The history of the genesis or the old mythology repeats itself in the

experience of every child. He too is a demon or god thrown into a particular chaos, where he strives ever to

lead things from disorder into order. Each individual soul is such, in virtue of its being a power to translate

the world into some particular language of its own; if not into a picture, a statue, or a dance, why, then,

into a trade, an art, a science, a mode of living, a conversation, a character, an influence. You admire pictures,

but it is as impossible for you to paint a right picture, as for grass to bear apples. But when the genius comes,

it makes fingers: it is pliancy, and the power of transferring the affair in the street into oils and colors.

There is no attractiveness like that of a new man. The sleepy nations are occupied with their political routine.

England, France and America read Parliamentary Debates, which no high genius now enlivens; and nobody

will read them who trusts his own eye: only they who are deceived by the popular repetition of distinguished

names. But when Napoleon unrolls his map, the eye is commanded by original power. When Chatham leads

the debate, men may well listen, because they must listen. A man, a personal ascendency is the only great

phenomenon. When nature has work to be done, she creates a genius to do it. Follow the great man, and you

shall see what the world has at heart in these ages. There is no omen like that.

But what strikes us in the fine genius is that which belongs of right to every one. A man should know himself

for a necessary actor. A link was wanting between two craving parts of nature, and he was hurled into being

as the bridge over that yawning need, the mediator betwixt two else unmarriageable facts. His two parents

held each of one of the wants, and the union of foreign constitutions in him enables him to do gladly and

gracefully what the assembled human race could not have sufficed to do. He knows his materials; he applies

himself to his work; he cannot read, or think, or look, but he unites the hitherto separated strands into a

perfect cord. The thoughts he delights to utter are the reason of his incarnation. Is it for him to account

himself cheap and superfluous, or to linger by the wayside for opportunities? Did he not come into being

because something must be done which he and no other is and does? If only he _sees_, the world will be

visible enough. He need not study where to stand, nor to put things in favorable lights; in him is the light,

from him all things are illuminated, to their centre. What patron shall he ask for employment and reward?

Hereto was he born, to deliver the thought of his heart from the universe to the universe, to do an office

which nature could not forego, nor he be discharged from rendering, and then immerge again into the holy

silence and eternity out of which as a man he arose. God is rich, and many more men than one he harbors in

his bosom, biding their time and the needs and the beauty of all. Is not this the theory of every man's genius

or faculty? Why then goest thou as some Boswell or listening worshipper to this saint or to that? That is the

only lesemajesty. Here art thou with whom so long the universe travailed in labor; darest thou think meanly

of thyself whom the stalwart Fate brought forth to unite his ragged sides, to shoot the gulf, to reconcile the

Whilst a necessity so great caused the man to exist, his health and erectness consist in the fidelity with which

he transmits influences from the vast and universal to the point on which his genius can act. The ends are

momentary: they are vents for the current of inward life which increases as it is spent. A man's wisdom is to

know that all ends are momentary, that the best end must be superseded by a better. But there is a

mischievous tendency in him to transfer his thought from the life to the ends, to quit his agency and rest in his

acts: the tools run away with the workman, the human with the divine. I conceive a man as always spoken to

from behind, and unable to turn his head and see the speaker. In all the millions who have heard the voice,

none ever saw the face. As children in their play run behind each other, and seize one by the ears and make

him walk before them, so is the spirit our unseen pilot. That wellknown voice speaks in all languages,

governs all men, and none ever caught a glimpse of its form. If the man will exactly obey it, it will adopt him,

so that he shall not any longer separate it from himself in his thought, he shall seem to be it, he shall be it. If

he listen with insatiable ears, richer and greater wisdom is taught him, the sound swells to a ravishing music,

he is borne away as with a flood, he becomes careless of his food and of his house, he is the fool of ideas, and

leads a heavenly life. But if his eye is set on the things to be done, and not on the truth that is still taught, and

for the sake of which the things are to be done, then the voice grows faint, and at last is but a humming in his

ears. His health and greatness consist in his being the channel through which heaven flows to earth, in short,

in the fulness in which an ecstatical state takes place in him. It is pitiful to be an artist, when, by forbearing to

be artists, we might be vessels filled with the divine overflowings, enriched by the circulations of

omniscience and omnipresence. Are there not moments in the history of heaven when the human race was not

counted by individuals, but was only the Influenced, was God in distribution, God rushing into multiform

benefit? It is sublime to receive, sublime to love, but this lust of imparting as from _us_, this desire to be

loved, the wish to be recognized as individuals, is finite, comes of a lower strain.

Shall I say, then, that, as far as we can trace the natural history of the soul, its health consists in the fulness of

its reception, call it piety, call it veneration in the fact, that enthusiasm is organized therein. What is

best in any work of art, but that part which the work itself seems to require and do; that which the man cannot

do again, that which flows from the hour and the occasion, like the eloquence of men in a tumultuous debate?

It was always the theory of literature, that the word of a poet was authoritative and final. He was supposed to

be the mouth of a divine wisdom. We rather envied his circumstance than his talent. We too could have

gladly prophesied standing in that place. We so quote our Scriptures; and the Greeks so quoted Homer,

Theognis, Pindar, and the rest. If the theory has receded out of modern criticism, it is because we have not

This ecstatical state seems to direct a regard to the whole and not to the parts; to the cause and not to the ends;

to the tendency, and not to the act. It respects genius and not talent; hope, and not possession: the anticipation

of all things by the intellect, and not the history itself; art, and not works of art; poetry, and not experiment;

There is no office or function of man but is rightly discharged by this divine method, and nothing that is not

noxious to him if detached from its universal relations. Is it his work in the world to study nature, or the laws

of the world? Let him beware of proposing to himself any end. Is it for use? nature is debased, as if one

looking at the ocean can remember only the price of fish. Or is it for pleasure? he is mocked: there is a certain

infatuating air in woods and mountains which draws on the idler to want and misery. There is something

social and intrusive in the nature of all things; they seek to penetrate and overpower, each the nature of every

other creature, and itself alone in all modes and throughout space and spirit to prevail and possess. Every star

in heaven is discontented and insatiable. Gravitation and chemistry cannot content them. Ever they woo and

court the eye of every beholder. Every man who comes into the world they seek to fascinate and possess, to

pass into his mind, for they desire to republish themselves in a more delicate world than that they occupy. It

is not enough that they are Jove, Mars, Orion, and the North Star, in the gravitating firmament: they would

have such poets as Newton, Herschel and Laplace, that they may reexist and reappear in the finer world of

rational souls, and fill that realm with their fame. So is it with all immaterial objects. These beautiful basilisks

set their brute, glorious eyes on the eye of every child, and, if they can, cause their nature to pass through his

Therefore man must be on his guard against this cup of enchantments, and must look at nature with a

supernatural eye. By piety alone, by conversing with the cause of nature, is he safe and commands it. And

because all knowledge is assimilation to the object of knowledge, as the power or genius of nature is ecstatic,

so must its science or the description of it be. The poet must be a rhapsodist: his inspiration a sort of bright

casualty: his will in it only the surrender of will to the Universal Power, which will not be seen face to face,

but must be received and sympathetically known. It is remarkable that we have out of the deeps of antiquity

in the oracles ascribed to the half fabulous Zoroaster, a statement of this fact, which every lover and seeker of

truth will recognize. "It is not proper," said Zoroaster, "to understand the Intelligible with vehemence, but if

you incline your mind, you will apprehend it: not too earnestly, but bringing a pure and inquiring eye. You

will not understand it as when understanding some particular thing, but with the flower of the mind. Things

divine are not attainable by mortals who understand sensual things, but only the lightarmed arrive at the

And because ecstasy is the law and cause of nature, therefore you cannot interpret it in too high and deep a

sense. Nature represents the best meaning of the wisest man. Does the sunset landscape seem to you the

palace of Friendship, those purple skies and lovely waters the amphitheatre dressed and garnished only for

the exchange of thought and love of the purest souls? It is that. All other meanings which base men have put

on it are conjectural and false. You cannot bathe twice in the same river, said Heraclitus; and I add, a man

never sees the same object twice: with his own enlargement the object acquires new aspects.

Does not the same law hold for virtue? It is vitiated by too much will. He who aims at progress, should aim at

an infinite, not at a special benefit. The reforms whose fame now fills the land with Temperance,

AntiSlavery, NonResistance, No Government, Equal Labor, fair and generous as each appears, are poor

bitter things when prosecuted for themselves as an end. To every reform, in proportion to its energy, early

disgusts are incident, so that the disciple is surprised at the very hour of his first triumphs, with chagrins, and

sickness, and a general distrust: so that he shuns his associates, hates the enterprise which lately seemed so

fair, and meditates to cast himself into the arms of that society and manner of life which he had newly

abandoned with so much pride and hope. Is it that he attached the value of virtue to some particular practices,

as, the denial of certain appetites in certain specified indulgences, and, afterward, found himself still as

wicked and as far from happiness in that abstinence, as he had been in the abuse? But the soul can be

appeased not by a deed but by a tendency. It is in a hope that she feels her wings. You shall love rectitude and

not the disuse of money or the avoidance of trade: an unimpeded mind, and not a monkish diet; sympathy and

usefulness, and not hoeing or coopering. Tell me not how great your project is, the civil liberation of the

world, its conversion into a Christian church, the establishment of public education, cleaner diet, a new

division of labor and of land, laws of love for laws of property; I say to you plainly there is no end to

which your practical faculty can aim, so sacred or so large, that, if pursued for itself, will not at last become

carrion and an offence to the nostril. The imaginative faculty of the soul must be fed with objects immense

and eternal. Your end should be one inapprehensible to the senses: then will it be a god always approached,

never touched; always giving health. A man adorns himself with prayer and love, as an aim adorns an

action. What is strong but goodness, and what is energetic but the presence of a brave man? The doctrine in

vegetable physiology of the _presence_, or the general influence of any substance over and above its

chemical influence, as of an alkali or a living plant, is more predicable of man. You need not speak to me, I

need not go where you are, that you should exert magnetism on me. Be you only whole and sufficient, and I

shall feel you in every part of my life and fortune, and I can as easily dodge the gravitation of the globe as

But there are other examples of this total and supreme influence, besides Nature and the conscience. "From

the poisonous tree, the world," say the Brahmins, "two species of fruit are produced, sweet as the waters of

life, Love or the society of beautiful souls, and Poetry, whose taste is like the immortal juice of Vishnu."

What is Love, and why is it the chief good, but because it is an overpowering enthusiasm? Never

selfpossessed or prudent, it is all abandonment. Is it not a certain admirable wisdom, preferable to all other

advantages, and whereof all others are only secondaries and indemnities, because this is that in which the

individual is no longer his own foolish master, but inhales an odorous and celestial air, is wrapped round with

awe of the object, blending for the time that object with the real and only good, and consults every omen in

nature with tremulous interest. When we speak truly, is not he only unhappy who is not in love? his

fancied freedom and selfrule is it not so much death? He who is in love is wise and is becoming wiser,

sees newly every time he looks at the object beloved, drawing from it with his eyes and his mind those

virtues which it possesses. Therefore if the object be not itself a living and expanding soul, he presently

exhausts it. But the love remains in his mind, and the wisdom it brought him; and it craves a new and higher

object. And the reason why all men honor love, is because it looks up and not down; aspires and not despairs.

And what is Genius but finer love, a love impersonal, a love of the flower and perfection of things, and a

desire to draw a new picture or copy of the same? It looks to the cause and life: it proceeds from within

outward, whilst Talent goes from without inward. Talent finds its models, methods, and ends, in society,

exists for exhibition, and goes to the soul only for power to work. Genius is its own end, and draws its means

and the style of its architecture from within, going abroad only for audience, and spectator, as we adapt our

voice and phrase to the distance and character of the ear we speak to. All your learning of all literatures

would never enable you to anticipate one of its thoughts or expressions, and yet each is natural and familiar

as household words. Here about us coils forever the ancient enigma, so old and so unutterable. Behold! there

is the sun, and the rain, and the rocks: the old sun, the old stones. How easy were it to describe all this fitly;

yet no word can pass. Nature is a mute, and man, her articulate speaking brother, lo! he also is a mute. Yet

when Genius arrives, its speech is like a river; it has no straining to describe, more than there is straining in

nature to exist. When thought is best, there is most of it. Genius sheds wisdom like perfume, and advertises

us that it flows out of a deeper source than the foregoing silence, that it knows so deeply and speaks so

musically, because it is itself a mutation of the thing it describes. It is sun and moon and wave and fire in

What is all history but the work of ideas, a record of the incomputable energy which his infinite aspirations

infuse into man? Has any thing grand and lasting been done? Who did it? Plainly not any man, but all men: it

was the prevalence and inundation of an idea. What brought the pilgrims here? One man says, civil liberty;

another, the desire of founding a church; and a third, discovers that the motive force was plantation and trade.

But if the Puritans could rise from the dust, they could not answer. It is to be seen in what they were, and not

in what they designed; it was the growth and expansion of the human race, and resembled herein the sequent

Revolution, which was not begun in Concord, or Lexington, or Virginia, but was the overflowing of the sense

of natural right in every clear and active spirit of the period. Is a man boastful and knowing, and his own

master? we turn from him without hope: but let him be filled with awe and dread before the Vast and the

Divine, which uses him glad to be used, and our eye is riveted to the chain of events. What a debt is ours to

that old religion which, in the childhood of most of us, still dwelt like a sabbath morning in the country of

New England, teaching privation, selfdenial and sorrow! A man was born not for prosperity, but to suffer

for the benefit of others, like the noble rockmaple which all around our villages bleeds for the service of

man. Not praise, not men's acceptance of our doing, but the spirit's holy errand through us absorbed the

thought. How dignified was this! How all that is called talents and success, in our noisy capitals, becomes

buzz and din before this manworthiness! How our friendships and the complaisances we use, shame us

now! Shall we not quit our companions, as if they were thieves and potcompanions, and betake ourselves to

some desert cliff of mount Katahdin, some unvisited recess in Moosehead Lake, to bewail our innocency and

to recover it, and with it the power to communicate again with these sharers of a more sacred idea?

And what is to replace for us the piety of that race? We cannot have theirs: it glides away from us day by day,

but we also can bask in the great morning which rises forever out of the eastern sea, and be ourselves the

children of the light. I stand here to say, Let us worship the mighty and transcendent Soul. It is the office, I

doubt not, of this age to annul that adulterous divorce which the superstition of many ages has effected

between the intellect and holiness. The lovers of goodness have been one class, the students of wisdom

another, as if either could exist in any purity without the other. Truth is always holy, holiness always wise. I

will that we keep terms with sin, and a sinful literature and society, no longer, but live a life of discovery and

performance. Accept the intellect, and it will accept us. Be the lowly ministers of that pure omniscience, and

deny it not before men. It will burn up all profane literature, all base current opinions, all the false powers of

the world, as in a moment of time. I draw from nature the lesson of an intimate divinity. Our health and

reason as men needs our respect to this fact, against the heedlessness and against the contradiction of society.

The sanity of man needs the poise of this immanent force. His nobility needs the assurance of this

inexhaustible reserved power. How great soever have been its bounties, they are a drop to the sea whence

they flow. If you say, `the acceptance of the vision is also the act of God:' I shall not seek to penetrate the

mystery, I admit the force of what you say. If you ask, `How can any rules be given for the attainment of gifts

so sublime?' I shall only remark that the solicitations of this spirit, as long as there is life, are never forborne.

Tenderly, tenderly, they woo and court us from every object in nature, from every fact in life, from every

thought in the mind. The one condition coupled with the gift of truth is its use. That man shall be learned who

reduceth his learning to practice. Emanuel Swedenborg affirmed that it was opened to him, "that the spirits

who knew truth in this life, but did it not, at death shall lose their knowledge." "If knowledge," said Ali the

Caliph, "calleth unto practice, well; if not, it goeth away." The only way into nature is to enact our best

insight. Instantly we are higher poets, and can speak a deeper law. Do what you know, and perception is

converted into character, as islands and continents were built by invisible infusories, or, as these forest leaves

absorb light, electricity, and volatile gases, and the gnarled oak to live a thousand years is the arrest and

fixation of the most volatile and ethereal currents. The doctrine of this Supreme Presence is a cry of joy and

exultation. Who shall dare think he has come late into nature, or has missed anything excellent in the past,

who seeth the admirable stars of possibility, and the yet untouched continent of hope glittering with all its

mountains in the vast West? I praise with wonder this great reality, which seems to drown all things in the

deluge of its light. What man seeing this, can lose it from his thoughts, or entertain a meaner subject? The

entrance of this into his mind seems to be the birth of man. We cannot describe the natural history of the soul,

but we know that it is divine. I cannot tell if these wonderful qualities which house today in this mortal

frame, shall ever reassemble in equal activity in a similar frame, or whether they have before had a natural

history like that of this body you see before you; but this one thing I know, that these qualities did not now

begin to exist, cannot be sick with my sickness, nor buried in any grave; but that they circulate through the

Universe: before the world was, they were. Nothing can bar them out, or shut them in, but they penetrate the

ocean and land, space and time, form and essence, and hold the key to universal nature. I draw from this faith

courage and hope. All things are known to the soul. It is not to be surprised by any communication. Nothing

can be greater than it. Let those fear and those fawn who will. The soul is in her native realm, and it is wider

than space, older than time, wide as hope, rich as love. Pusillanimity and fear she refuses with a beautiful

scorn: they are not for her who putteth on her coronation robes, and goes out through universal love to