Contents:

Page No 1

Page No 2

Page No 3

Page No 4

THE TRANSCENDENTALIST........................................................................................................................1

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

The first thing we have to say respecting what are called _new views_ here in New England, at the present

time, is, that they are not new, but the very oldest of thoughts cast into the mould of these new times. The

light is always identical in its composition, but it falls on a great variety of objects, and by so falling is first

revealed to us, not in its own form, for it is formless, but in theirs; in like manner, thought only appears in the

objects it classifies. What is popularly called Transcendentalism among us, is Idealism; Idealism as it appears

in 1842. As thinkers, mankind have ever divided into two sects, Materialists and Idealists; the first class

founding on experience, the second on consciousness; the first class beginning to think from the data of the

senses, the second class perceive that the senses are not final, and say, the senses give us representations of

things, but what are the things themselves, they cannot tell. The materialist insists on facts, on history, on the

force of circumstances, and the animal wants of man; the idealist on the power of Thought and of Will, on

inspiration, on miracle, on individual culture. These two modes of thinking are both natural, but the idealist

contends that his way of thinking is in higher nature. He concedes all that the other affirms, admits the

impressions of sense, admits their coherency, their use and beauty, and then asks the materialist for his

grounds of assurance that things are as his senses represent them. But I, he says, affirm facts not affected by

the illusions of sense, facts which are of the same nature as the faculty which reports them, and not liable to

doubt; facts which in their first appearance to us assume a native superiority to material facts, degrading these

into a language by which the first are to be spoken; facts which it only needs a retirement from the senses to

discern. Every materialist will be an idealist; but an idealist can never go backward to be a materialist.

The idealist, in speaking of events, sees them as spirits. He does not deny the sensuous fact: by no means; but

he will not see that alone. He does not deny the presence of this table, this chair, and the walls of this room,

but he looks at these things as the reverse side of the tapestry, as the _other end_, each being a sequel or

completion of a spiritual fact which nearly concerns him. This manner of looking at things, transfers every

object in nature from an independent and anomalous position without there, into the consciousness. Even the

materialist Condillac, perhaps the most logical expounder of materialism, was constrained to say, "Though

we should soar into the heavens, though we should sink into the abyss, we never go out of ourselves; it is

The materialist, secure in the certainty of sensation, mocks at finespun theories, at stargazers and

dreamers, and believes that his life is solid, that he at least takes nothing for granted, but knows where he

stands, and what he does. Yet how easy it is to show him, that he also is a phantom walking and working

amid phantoms, and that he need only ask a question or two beyond his daily questions, to find his solid

universe growing dim and impalpable before his sense. The sturdy capitalist, no matter how deep and square

on blocks of Quincy granite he lays the foundations of his bankinghouse or Exchange, must set it, at last,

not on a cube corresponding to the angles of his structure, but on a mass of unknown materials and solidity,

redhot or whitehot, perhaps at the core, which rounds off to an almost perfect sphericity, and lies floating

in soft air, and goes spinning away, dragging bank and banker with it at a rate of thousands of miles the hour,

he knows not whither, a bit of bullet, now glimmering, now darkling through a small cubic space on the

edge of an unimaginable pit of emptiness. And this wild balloon, in which his whole venture is embarked, is a

just symbol of his whole state and faculty. One thing, at least, he says is certain, and does not give me the

headache, that figures do not lie; the multiplication table has been hitherto found unimpeachable truth; and,

moreover, if I put a gold eagle in my safe, I find it again tomorrow; but for these thoughts, I know not

whence they are. They change and pass away. But ask him why he believes that an uniform experience will

continue uniform, or on what grounds he founds his faith in his figures, and he will perceive that his mental

fabric is built up on just as strange and quaking foundations as his proud edifice of stone.

In the order of thought, the materialist takes his departure from the external world, and esteems a man as one

product of that. The idealist takes his departure from his consciousness, and reckons the world an appearance.

The materialist respects sensible masses, Society, Government, social art, and luxury, every establishment,

every mass, whether majority of numbers, or extent of space, or amount of objects, every social action. The

idealist has another measure, which is metaphysical, namely, the _rank_ which things themselves take in his

consciousness; not at all, the size or appearance. Mind is the only reality, of which men and all other natures

are better or worse reflectors. Nature, literature, history, are only subjective phenomena. Although in his

action overpowered by the laws of action, and so, warmly cooperating with men, even preferring them to

himself, yet when he speaks scientifically, or after the order of thought, he is constrained to degrade persons

into representatives of truths. He does not respect labor, or the products of labor, namely, property, otherwise

than as a manifold symbol, illustrating with wonderful fidelity of details the laws of being; he does not

respect government, except as far as it reiterates the law of his mind; nor the church; nor charities; nor arts,

for themselves; but hears, as at a vast distance, what they say, as if his consciousness would speak to him

through a pantomimic scene. His thought, that is the Universe. His experience inclines him to behold the

procession of facts you call the world, as flowing perpetually outward from an invisible, unsounded centre in

himself, centre alike of him and of them, and necessitating him to regard all things as having a subjective or

From this transfer of the world into the consciousness, this beholding of all things in the mind, follow easily

his whole ethics. It is simpler to be selfdependent. The height, the deity of man is, to be selfsustained, to

need no gift, no foreign force. Society is good when it does not violate me; but best when it is likest to

solitude. Everything real is selfexistent. Everything divine shares the selfexistence of Deity. All that you

call the world is the shadow of that substance which you are, the perpetual creation of the powers of thought,

of those that are dependent and of those that are independent of your will. Do not cumber yourself with

fruitless pains to mend and remedy remote effects; let the soul be erect, and all things will go well. You think

me the child of my circumstances: I make my circumstance. Let any thought or motive of mine be different

from that they are, the difference will transform my condition and economy. I this thought which is called

I, is the mould into which the world is poured like melted wax. The mould is invisible, but the world

betrays the shape of the mould. You call it the power of circumstance, but it is the power of me. Am I in

harmony with myself? my position will seem to you just and commanding. Am I vicious and insane? my

fortunes will seem to you obscure and descending. As I am, so shall I associate, and, so shall I act; Caesar's

history will paint out Caesar. Jesus acted so, because he thought so. I do not wish to overlook or to gainsay

any reality; I say, I make my circumstance: but if you ask me, Whence am I? I feel like other men my relation

to that Fact which cannot be spoken, or defined, nor even thought, but which exists, and will exist.

The Transcendentalist adopts the whole connection of spiritual doctrine. He believes in miracle, in the

perpetual openness of the human mind to new influx of light and power; he believes in inspiration, and in

ecstasy. He wishes that the spiritual principle should be suffered to demonstrate itself to the end, in all

possible applications to the state of man, without the admission of anything unspiritual; that is, anything

positive, dogmatic, personal. Thus, the spiritual measure of inspiration is the depth of the thought, and never,

who said it? And so he resists all attempts to palm other rules and measures on the spirit than its own.

In action, he easily incurs the charge of antinomianism by his avowal that he, who has the Lawgiver, may

with safety not only neglect, but even contravene every written commandment. In the play of Othello, the

expiring Desdemona absolves her husband of the murder, to her attendant Emilia. Afterwards, when Emilia

Of this fine incident, Jacobi, the Transcendental moralist, makes use, with other parallel instances, in his

reply to Fichte. Jacobi, refusing all measure of right and wrong except the determinations of the private spirit,

remarks that there is no crime but has sometimes been a virtue. "I," he says, "am that atheist, that godless

person who, in opposition to an imaginary doctrine of calculation, would lie as the dying Desdemona lied;

would lie and deceive, as Pylades when he personated Orestes; would assassinate like Timoleon; would

perjure myself like Epaminondas, and John de Witt; I would resolve on suicide like Cato; I would commit

sacrilege with David; yea, and pluck ears of corn on the Sabbath, for no other reason than that I was fainting

for lack of food. For, I have assurance in myself, that, in pardoning these faults according to the letter, man

exerts the sovereign right which the majesty of his being confers on him; he sets the seal of his divine nature

In like manner, if there is anything grand and daring in human thought or virtue, any reliance on the vast, the

unknown; any presentiment; any extravagance of faith, the spiritualist adopts it as most in nature. The

oriental mind has always tended to this largeness. Buddhism is an expression of it. The Buddhist who thanks

no man, who says, "do not flatter your benefactors," but who, in his conviction that every good deed can by

no possibility escape its reward, will not deceive the benefactor by pretending that he has done more than he

You will see by this sketch that there is no such thing as a Transcendental _party_; that there is no pure

Transcendentalist; that we know of none but prophets and heralds of such a philosophy; that all who by

strong bias of nature have leaned to the spiritual side in doctrine, have stopped short of their goal. We have

had many harbingers and forerunners; but of a purely spiritual life, history has afforded no example. I mean,

we have yet no man who has leaned entirely on his character, and eaten angels' food; who, trusting to his

sentiments, found life made of miracles; who, working for universal aims, found himself fed, he knew not

how; clothed, sheltered, and weaponed, he knew not how, and yet it was done by his own hands. Only in the

instinct of the lower animals, we find the suggestion of the methods of it, and something higher than our

understanding. The squirrel hoards nuts, and the bee gathers honey, without knowing what they do, and they

Shall we say, then, that Transcendentalism is the Saturnalia or excess of Faith; the presentiment of a faith

proper to man in his integrity, excessive only when his imperfect obedience hinders the satisfaction of his

wish. Nature is transcendental, exists primarily, necessarily, ever works and advances, yet takes no thought

for the morrow. Man owns the dignity of the life which throbs around him in chemistry, and tree, and animal,

and in the involuntary functions of his own body; yet he is balked when he tries to fling himself into this

enchanted circle, where all is done without degradation. Yet genius and virtue predict in man the same

absence of private ends, and of condescension to circumstances, united with every trait and talent of beauty

This way of thinking, falling on Roman times, made Stoic philosophers; falling on despotic times, made

patriot Catos and Brutuses; falling on superstitious times, made prophets and apostles; on popish times, made

protestants and ascetic monks, preachers of Faith against the preachers of Works; on prelatical times, made

Puritans and Quakers; and falling on Unitarian and commercial times, makes the peculiar shades of Idealism

It is well known to most of my audience, that the Idealism of the present day acquired the name of

Transcendental, from the use of that term by Immanuel Kant, of Konigsberg, who replied to the skeptical

philosophy of Locke, which insisted that there was nothing in the intellect which was not previously in the

experience of the senses, by showing that there was a very important class of ideas, or imperative forms,

which did not come by experience, but through which experience was acquired; that these were intuitions of

the mind itself; and he denominated them _Transcendental_ forms. The extraordinary profoundness and

precision of that man's thinking have given vogue to his nomenclature, in Europe and America, to that extent,

that whatever belongs to the class of intuitive thought, is popularly called at the present day

Although, as we have said, there is no pure Transcendentalist, yet the tendency to respect the intuitions, and

to give them, at least in our creed, all authority over our experience, has deeply colored the conversation and

poetry of the present day; and the history of genius and of religion in these times, though impure, and as yet

not incarnated in any powerful individual, will be the history of this tendency.

It is a sign of our times, conspicuous to the coarsest observer, that many intelligent and religious persons

withdraw themselves from the common labors and competitions of the market and the caucus, and betake

themselves to a certain solitary and critical way of living, from which no solid fruit has yet appeared to justify

their separation. They hold themselves aloof: they feel the disproportion between their faculties and the work

offered them, and they prefer to ramble in the country and perish of ennui, to the degradation of such charities

and such ambitions as the city can propose to them. They are striking work, and crying out for somewhat

worthy to do! What they do, is done only because they are overpowered by the humanities that speak on all

sides; and they consent to such labor as is open to them, though to their lofty dream the writing of Iliads or

Now every one must do after his kind, be he asp or angel, and these must. The question, which a wise man

and a student of modern history will ask, is, what that kind is? And truly, as in ecclesiastical history we take

so much pains to know what the Gnostics, what the Essenes, what the Manichees, and what the Reformers

believed, it would not misbecome us to inquire nearer home, what these companions and contemporaries of

ours think and do, at least so far as these thoughts and actions appear to be not accidental and personal, but

common to many, and the inevitable flower of the Tree of Time. Our American literature and spiritual history

are, we confess, in the optative mood; but whoso knows these seething brains, these admirable radicals, these

unsocial worshippers, these talkers who talk the sun and moon away, will believe that this heresy cannot pass

They are lonely; the spirit of their writing and conversation is lonely; they repel influences; they shun general

society; they incline to shut themselves in their chamber in the house, to live in the country rather than in the

town, and to find their tasks and amusements in solitude. Society, to be sure, does not like this very well; it

saith, Whoso goes to walk alone, accuses the whole world; he declareth all to be unfit to be his companions;

it is very uncivil, nay, insulting; Society will retaliate. Meantime, this retirement does not proceed from any

whim on the part of these separators; but if any one will take pains to talk with them, he will find that this

part is chosen both from temperament and from principle; with some unwillingness, too, and as a choice of

the less of two evils; for these persons are not by nature melancholy, sour, and unsocial, they are not

stockish or brute, but joyous; susceptible, affectionate; they have even more than others a great wish to be

loved. Like the young Mozart, they are rather ready to cry ten times a day, "But are you sure you love me?"

Nay, if they tell you their whole thought, they will own that love seems to them the last and highest gift of

nature; that there are persons whom in their hearts they daily thank for existing, persons whose faces are

perhaps unknown to them, but whose fame and spirit have penetrated their solitude, and for whose sake

they wish to exist. To behold the beauty of another character, which inspires a new interest in our own; to

behold the beauty lodged in a human being, with such vivacity of apprehension, that I am instantly forced

home to inquire if I am not deformity itself: to behold in another the expression of a love so high that it

assures itself, assures itself also to me against every possible casualty except my unworthiness; these

are degrees on the scale of human happiness, to which they have ascended; and it is a fidelity to this

sentiment which has made common association distasteful to them. They wish a just and even fellowship, or

none. They cannot gossip with you, and they do not wish, as they are sincere and religious, to gratify any

mere curiosity which you may entertain. Like fairies, they do not wish to be spoken of. Love me, they say,

but do not ask who is my cousin and my uncle. If you do not need to hear my thought, because you can read

it in my face and behavior, then I will tell it you from sunrise to sunset. If you cannot divine it, you would not

understand what I say. I will not molest myself for you. I do not wish to be profaned.

And yet, it seems as if this loneliness, and not this love, would prevail in their circumstances, because of the

extravagant demand they make on human nature. That, indeed, constitutes a new feature in their portrait, that

they are the most exacting and extortionate critics. Their quarrel with every man they meet, is not with his

kind, but with his degree. There is not enough of him, that is the only fault. They prolong their privilege

of childhood in this wise, of doing nothing, but making immense demands on all the gladiators in the lists

of action and fame. They make us feel the strange disappointment which overcasts every human youth. So

many promising youths, and never a finished man! The profound nature will have a savage rudeness; the

delicate one will be shallow, or the victim of sensibility; the richly accomplished will have some capital

absurdity; and so every piece has a crack. 'T is strange, but this masterpiece is a result of such an extreme

delicacy, that the most unobserved flaw in the boy will neutralize the most aspiring genius, and spoil the

work. Talk with a seaman of the hazards to life in his profession, and he will ask you, "Where are the old

sailors? do you not see that all are young men?" And we, on this sea of human thought, in like manner

inquire, Where are the old idealists? where are they who represented to the last generation that extravagant

hope, which a few happy aspirants suggest to ours? In looking at the class of counsel, and power, and wealth,

and at the matronage of the land, amidst all the prudence and all the triviality, one asks, Where are they who

represented genius, virtue, the invisible and heavenly world, to these? Are they dead, taken in early

ripeness to the gods, as ancient wisdom foretold their fate? Or did the high idea die out of them, and leave

their unperfumed body as its tomb and tablet, announcing to all that the celestial inhabitant, who once gave

them beauty, had departed? Will it be better with the new generation? We easily predict a fair future to each

new candidate who enters the lists, but we are frivolous and volatile, and by low aims and ill example do

what we can to defeat this hope. Then these youths bring us a rough but effectual aid. By their unconcealed

dissatisfaction, they expose our poverty, and the insignificance of man to man. A man is a poor limitary

benefactor. He ought to be a shower of benefits a great influence, which should never let his brother go,

but should refresh old merits continually with new ones; so that, though absent, he should never be out of my

mind, his name never far from my lips; but if the earth should open at my side, or my last hour were come,

his name should be the prayer I should utter to the Universe. But in our experience, man is cheap, and

friendship wants its deep sense. We affect to dwell with our friends in their absence, but we do not; when

deed, word, or letter comes not, they let us go. These exacting children advertise us of our wants. There is no

compliment, no smooth speech with them; they pay you only this one compliment, of insatiable expectation;

they aspire, they severely exact, and if they only stand fast in this watchtower, and persist in demanding

unto the end, and without end, then are they terrible friends, whereof poet and priest cannot choose but stand

in awe; and what if they eat clouds, and drink wind, they have not been without service to the race of man.

With this passion for what is great and extraordinary, it cannot be wondered at, that they are repelled by

vulgarity and frivolity in people. They say to themselves, It is better to be alone than in bad company. And it

is really a wish to be met, the wish to find society for their hope and religion, which prompts them to

shun what is called society. They feel that they are never so fit for friendship, as when they have quitted

mankind, and taken themselves to friend. A picture, a book, a favorite spot in the hills or the woods, which

they can people with the fair and worthy creation of the fancy, can give them often forms so vivid, that these

But their solitary and fastidious manners not only withdraw them from the conversation, but from the labors

of the world; they are not good citizens, not good members of society; unwillingly they bear their part of the

public and private burdens; they do not willingly share in the public charities, in the public religious rites, in

the enterprises of education, of missions foreign or domestic, in the abolition of the slavetrade, or in the

temperance society. They do not even like to vote. The philanthropists inquire whether Transcendentalism

does not mean sloth: they had as lief hear that their friend is dead, as that he is a Transcendentalist; for then is

he paralyzed, and can never do anything for humanity. What right, cries the good world, has the man of

genius to retreat from work, and indulge himself? The popular literary creed seems to be, `I am a sublime

genius; I ought not therefore to labor.' But genius is the power to labor better and more availably. Deserve thy

genius: exalt it. The good, the illuminated, sit apart from the rest, censuring their dulness and vices, as if they

thought that, by sitting very grand in their chairs, the very brokers, attorneys, and congressmen would see the

error of their ways, and flock to them. But the good and wise must learn to act, and carry salvation to the

On the part of these children, it is replied, that life and their faculty seem to them gifts too rich to be

squandered on such trifles as you propose to them. What you call your fundamental institutions, your great

and holy causes, seem to them great abuses, and, when nearly seen, paltry matters. Each `Cause,' as it is

called, say Abolition, Temperance, say Calvinism, or Unitarianism, becomes speedily a little shop,

where the article, let it have been at first never so subtle and ethereal, is now made up into portable and

convenient cakes, and retailed in small quantities to suit purchasers. You make very free use of these words

`great' and `holy,' but few things appear to them such. Few persons have any magnificence of nature to

inspire enthusiasm, and the philanthropies and charities have a certain air of quackery. As to the general

course of living, and the daily employments of men, they cannot see much virtue in these, since they are parts

of this vicious circle; and, as no great ends are answered by the men, there is nothing noble in the arts by

which they are maintained. Nay, they have made the experiment, and found that, from the liberal professions

to the coarsest manual labor, and from the courtesies of the academy and the college to the conventions of the

cotillonroom and the morning call, there is a spirit of cowardly compromise and seeming, which intimates a

Unless the action is necessary, unless it is adequate, I do not wish to perform it. I do not wish to do one thing

but once. I do not love routine. Once possessed of the principle, it is equally easy to make four or forty

thousand applications of it. A great man will be content to have indicated in any the slightest manner his

perception of the reigning Idea of his time, and will leave to those who like it the multiplication of examples.

When he has hit the white, the rest may shatter the target. Every thing admonishes us how needlessly long life

is. Every moment of a hero so raises and cheers us, that a twelvemonth is an age. All that the brave Xanthus

brings home from his wars, is the recollection that, at the storming of Samos, "in the heat of the battle,

Pericles smiled on me, and passed on to another detachment." It is the quality of the moment, not the number

New, we confess, and by no means happy, is our condition: if you want the aid of our labor, we ourselves

stand in greater want of the labor. We are miserable with inaction. We perish of rest and rust: but we do not

`Be it so: I can sit in a corner and _perish_, (as you call it,) but I will not move until I have the highest

command. If no call should come for years, for centuries, then I know that the want of the Universe is the

attestation of faith by my abstinence. Your virtuous projects, so called, do not cheer me. I know that which

shall come will cheer me. If I cannot work, at least I need not lie. All that is clearly due today is not to lie. In

other places, other men have encountered sharp trials, and have behaved themselves well. The martyrs were

sawn asunder, or hung alive on meathooks. Cannot we screw our courage to patience and truth, and without

complaint, or even with goodhumor, await our turn of action in the Infinite Counsels?'

But, to come a little closer to the secret of these persons, we must say, that to them it seems a very easy

matter to answer the objections of the man of the world, but not so easy to dispose of the doubts and

objections that occur to themselves. They are exercised in their own spirit with queries, which acquaint them

with all adversity, and with the trials of the bravest heroes. When I asked them concerning their private

experience, they answered somewhat in this wise: It is not to be denied that there must be some wide

difference between my faith and other faith; and mine is a certain brief experience, which surprised me in the

highway or in the market, in some place, at some time, whether in the body or out of the body, God

knoweth, and made me aware that I had played the fool with fools all this time, but that law existed for me

and for all; that to me belonged trust, a child's trust and obedience, and the worship of ideas, and I should

never be fool more. Well, in the space of an hour, probably, I was let down from this height; I was at my old

tricks, the selfish member of a selfish society. My life is superficial, takes no root in the deep world; I ask,

When shall I die, and be relieved of the responsibility of seeing an Universe which I do not use? I wish to

exchange this flashoflightning faith for continuous daylight, this feverglow for a benign climate.

These two states of thought diverge every moment, and stand in wild contrast. To him who looks at his life

from these moments of illumination, it will seem that he skulks and plays a mean, shiftless, and subaltern part

in the world. That is to be done which he has not skill to do, or to be said which others can say better, and he

lies by, or occupies his hands with some plaything, until his hour comes again. Much of our reading, much of

our labor, seems mere waiting: it was not that we were born for. Any other could do it as well, or better. So

little skill enters into these works, so little do they mix with the divine life, that it really signifies little what

we do, whether we turn a grindstone, or ride, or run, or make fortunes, or govern the state. The worst feature

of this double consciousness is, that the two lives, of the understanding and of the soul, which we lead, really

show very little relation to each other, never meet and measure each other: one prevails now, all buzz and din;

and the other prevails then, all infinitude and paradise; and, with the progress of life, the two discover no

greater disposition to reconcile themselves. Yet, what is my faith? What am I? What but a thought of serenity

and independence, an abode in the deep blue sky? Presently the clouds shut down again; yet we retain the

belief that this petty web we weave will at last be overshot and reticulated with veins of the blue, and that the

moments will characterize the days. Patience, then, is for us, is it not? Patience, and still patience. When we

pass, as presently we shall, into some new infinitude, out of this Iceland of negations, it will please us to

reflect that, though we had few virtues or consolations, we bore with our indigence, nor once strove to repair

But this class are not sufficiently characterized, if we omit to add that they are lovers and worshippers of

Beauty. In the eternal trinity of Truth, Goodness, and Beauty, each in its perfection including the three, they

prefer to make Beauty the sign and head. Something of the same taste is observable in all the moral

movements of the time, in the religious and benevolent enterprises. They have a liberal, even an aesthetic

spirit. A reference to Beauty in action sounds, to be sure, a little hollow and ridiculous in the ears of the old

church. In politics, it has often sufficed, when they treated of justice, if they kept the bounds of selfish

calculation. If they granted restitution, it was prudence which granted it. But the justice which is now claimed

for the black, and the pauper, and the drunkard is for Beauty, is for a necessity to the soul of the agent, not

of the beneficiary. I say, this is the tendency, not yet the realization. Our virtue totters and trips, does not yet

walk firmly. Its representatives are austere; they preach and denounce; their rectitude is not yet a grace. They

are still liable to that slight taint of burlesque which, in our strange world, attaches to the zealot. A saint

should be as dear as the apple of the eye. Yet we are tempted to smile, and we flee from the working to the

speculative reformer, to escape that same slight ridicule. Alas for these days of derision and criticism! We

call the Beautiful the highest, because it appears to us the golden mean, escaping the dowdiness of the good,

and the heartlessness of the true. They are lovers of nature also, and find an indemnity in the inviolable

There is, no doubt, a great deal of wellfounded objection to be spoken or felt against the sayings and doings

of this class, some of whose traits we have selected; no doubt, they will lay themselves open to criticism and

to lampoons, and as ridiculous stories will be to be told of them as of any. There will be cant and pretension;

there will be subtilty and moonshine. These persons are of unequal strength, and do not all prosper. They

complain that everything around them must be denied; and if feeble, it takes all their strength to deny, before

they can begin to lead their own life. Grave seniors insist on their respect to this institution, and that usage; to

an obsolete history; to some vocation, or college, or etiquette, or beneficiary, or charity, or morning or

evening call, which they resist, as what does not concern them. But it costs such sleepless nights, alienations

and misgivings, they have so many moods about it; these old guardians never change _their_ minds;

they have but one mood on the subject, namely, that Antony is very perverse, that it is quite as much as

Antony can do, to assert his rights, abstain from what he thinks foolish, and keep his temper. He cannot help

the reaction of this injustice in his own mind. He is bracedup and stilted; all freedom and flowing genius, all

sallies of wit and frolic nature are quite out of the question; it is well if he can keep from lying, injustice, and

suicide. This is no time for gaiety and grace. His strength and spirits are wasted in rejection. But the strong

spirits overpower those around them without effort. Their thought and emotion comes in like a flood, quite

withdraws them from all notice of these carping critics; they surrender themselves with glad heart to the

heavenly guide, and only by implication reject the clamorous nonsense of the hour. Grave seniors talk to the

deaf, church and old book mumble and ritualize to an unheeding, preoccupied and advancing mind, and

thus they by happiness of greater momentum lose no time, but take the right road at first.

But all these of whom I speak are not proficients; they are novices; they only show the road in which man

should travel, when the soul has greater health and prowess. Yet let them feel the dignity of their charge, and

deserve a larger power. Their heart is the ark in which the fire is concealed, which shall burn in a broader and

universal flame. Let them obey the Genius then most when his impulse is wildest; then most when he seems

to lead to uninhabitable desarts of thought and life; for the path which the hero travels alone is the highway of

health and benefit to mankind. What is the privilege and nobility of our nature, but its persistency, through its

Society also has its duties in reference to this class, and must behold them with what charity it can. Possibly

some benefit may yet accrue from them to the state. In our Mechanics' Fair, there must be not only bridges,

ploughs, carpenters' planes, and baking troughs, but also some few finer instruments, raingauges,

thermometers, and telescopes; and in society, besides farmers, sailors, and weavers, there must be a few

persons of purer fire kept specially as gauges and meters of character; persons of a fine, detecting instinct,

who betray the smallest accumulations of wit and feeling in the bystander. Perhaps too there might be room

for the exciters and monitors; collectors of the heavenly spark with power to convey the electricity to others.

Or, as the stormtossed vessel at sea speaks the frigate or `line packet' to learn its longitude, so it may not be

without its advantage that we should now and then encounter rare and gifted men, to compare the points of

Amidst the downward tendency and proneness of things, when every voice is raised for a new road or another

statute, or a subscription of stock, for an improvement in dress, or in dentistry, for a new house or a larger

business, for a political party, or the division of an estate, will you not tolerate one or two solitary voices

in the land, speaking for thoughts and principles not marketable or perishable? Soon these improvements and

mechanical inventions will be superseded; these modes of living lost out of memory; these cities rotted,

ruined by war, by new inventions, by new seats of trade, or the geologic changes: all gone, like the shells

which sprinkle the seabeach with a white colony today, forever renewed to be forever destroyed. But the

thoughts which these few hermits strove to proclaim by silence, as well as by speech, not only by what they

did, but by what they forbore to do, shall abide in beauty and strength, to reorganize themselves in nature, to

invest themselves anew in other, perhaps higher endowed and happier mixed clay than ours, in fuller union