History
Ralph Waldo Emerson


There is no great and no small
To the Soul that maketh all:
And where it cometh, all things are;
And it cometh everywhere.

I am owner of the sphere,
Of the seven stars and the solar year,
Of Caesar's hand, and Plato's brain,
Of Lord Christ's heart, and Shakspeare's strain.

History

There is one mind common to all individual men. Every man is
an inlet to the same and to all of the same. He that is once
admitted to the right of reason is made a freeman of the whole
estate. What Plato has thought, he may think; what a saint has felt,
he may feel; what at any time has be-fallen any man, he can
understand. Who hath access to this universal mind is a party to all
that is or can be done, for this is the only and sovereign agent.

Of the works of this mind history is the record. Its genius is
illustrated by the entire series of days. Man is explicable by
nothing less than all his history. Without hurry, without rest, the
human spirit goes forth from the beginning to embody every faculty,
every thought, every emotion, which belongs to it in appropriate
events. But the thought is always prior to the fact; all the facts
of history preexist in the mind as laws. Each law in turn is made by
circumstances predominant, and the limits of nature give power to but
one at a time. A man is the whole encyclopaedia of facts. The
creation of a thousand forests is in one acorn, and Egypt, Greece,
Rome, Gaul, Britain, America, lie folded already in the first man.
Epoch after epoch, camp, kingdom, empire, republic, democracy, are
merely the application of his manifold spirit to the manifold world.

This human mind wrote history, and this must read it. The
Sphinx must solve her own riddle. If the whole of history is in one
man, it is all to be explained from individual experience. There is
a relation between the hours of our life and the centuries of time.
As the air I breathe is drawn from the great repositories of nature,
as the light on my book is yielded by a star a hundred millions of
miles distant, as the poise of my body depends on the equilibrium of
centrifugal and centripetal forces, so the hours should be instructed
by the ages, and the ages explained by the hours. Of the universal
mind each individual man is one more incarnation. All its properties
consist in him. Each new fact in his private experience flashes a
light on what great bodies of men have done, and the crises of his
life refer to national crises. Every revolution was first a thought
in one man's mind, and when the same thought occurs to another man,
it is the key to that era. Every reform was once a private opinion,
and when it shall be a private opinion again, it will solve the
problem of the age. The fact narrated must correspond to something
in me to be credible or intelligible. We as we read must become
Greeks, Romans, Turks, priest and king, martyr and executioner, must
fasten these images to some reality in our secret experience, or we
shall learn nothing rightly. What befell Asdrubal or Caesar Borgia
is as much an illustration of the mind's powers and depravations as
what has befallen us. Each new law and political movement has
meaning for you. Stand before each of its tablets and say, `Under
this mask did my Proteus nature hide itself.' This remedies the
defect of our too great nearness to ourselves. This throws our
actions into perspective: and as crabs, goats, scorpions, the
balance, and the waterpot lose their meanness when hung as signs in
the zodiac, so I can see my own vices without heat in the distant
persons of Solomon, Alcibiades, and Catiline.

It is the universal nature which gives worth to particular men
and things. Human life as containing this is mysterious and
inviolable, and we hedge it round with penalties and laws. All laws
derive hence their ultimate reason; all express more or less
distinctly some command of this supreme, illimitable essence.
Property also holds of the soul, covers great spiritual facts, and
instinctively we at first hold to it with swords and laws, and wide
and complex combinations. The obscure consciousness of this fact is
the light of all our day, the claim of claims; the plea for
education, for justice, for charity, the foundation of friendship and
love, and of the heroism and grandeur which belong to acts of
self-reliance. It is remarkable that involuntarily we always read as
superior beings. Universal history, the poets, the romancers, do not
in their stateliest pictures -- in the sacerdotal, the imperial
palaces, in the triumphs of will or of genius -- anywhere lose our
ear, anywhere make us feel that we intrude, that this is for better
men; but rather is it true, that in their grandest strokes we feel
most at home. All that Shakspeare says of the king, yonder slip of a
boy that reads in the corner feels to be true of himself. We
sympathize in the great moments of history, in the great discoveries,
the great resistances, the great prosperities of men; -- because
there law was enacted, the sea was searched, the land was found, or
the blow was struck _for us_, as we ourselves in that place would
have done or applauded.

We have the same interest in condition and character. We honor
the rich, because they have externally the freedom, power, and grace
which we feel to be proper to man, proper to us. So all that is said
of the wise man by Stoic, or oriental or modern essayist, describes
to each reader his own idea, describes his unattained but attainable
self. All literature writes the character of the wise man. Books,
monuments, pictures, conversation, are portraits in which he finds
the lineaments he is forming. The silent and the eloquent praise him
and accost him, and he is stimulated wherever he moves as by personal
allusions. A true aspirant, therefore, never needs look for
allusions personal and laudatory in discourse. He hears the
commendation, not of himself, but more sweet, of that character he
seeks, in every word that is said concerning character, yea, further,
in every fact and circumstance, -- in the running river and the
rustling corn. Praise is looked, homage tendered, love flows from
mute nature, from the mountains and the lights of the firmament.

These hints, dropped as it were from sleep and night, let us
use in broad day. The student is to read history actively and not
passively; to esteem his own life the text, and books the commentary.
Thus compelled, the Muse of history will utter oracles, as never to
those who do not respect themselves. I have no expectation that any
man will read history aright, who thinks that what was done in a
remote age, by men whose names have resounded far, has any deeper
sense than what he is doing to-day.

The world exists for the education of each man. There is no
age or state of society or mode of action in history, to which there
is not somewhat corresponding in his life. Every thing tends in a
wonderful manner to abbreviate itself and yield its own virtue to
him. He should see that he can live all history in his own person.
He must sit solidly at home, and not suffer himself to be bullied by
kings or empires, but know that he is greater than all the geography
and all the government of the world; he must transfer the point of
view from which history is commonly read, from Rome and Athens and
London to himself, and not deny his conviction that he is the court,
and if England or Egypt have any thing to say to him, he will try the
case; if not, let them for ever be silent. He must attain and
maintain that lofty sight where facts yield their secret sense, and
poetry and annals are alike. The instinct of the mind, the purpose
of nature, betrays itself in the use we make of the signal narrations
of history. Time dissipates to shining ether the solid angularity of
facts. No anchor, no cable, no fences, avail to keep a fact a fact.
Babylon, Troy, Tyre, Palestine, and even early Rome, are passing
already into fiction. The Garden of Eden, the sun standing still in
Gibeon, is poetry thenceforward to all nations. Who cares what the
fact was, when we have made a constellation of it to hang in heaven
an immortal sign? London and Paris and New York must go the same
way. "What is History," said Napoleon, "but a fable agreed upon?"
This life of ours is stuck round with Egypt, Greece, Gaul, England,
War, Colonization, Church, Court, and Commerce, as with so many
flowers and wild ornaments grave and gay. I will not make more
account of them. I believe in Eternity. I can find Greece, Asia,
Italy, Spain, and the Islands, -- the genius and creative principle
of each and of all eras in my own mind.

We are always coming up with the emphatic facts of history in
our private experience, and verifying them here. All history becomes
subjective; in other words, there is properly no history; only
biography. Every mind must know the whole lesson for itself, -- must
go over the whole ground. What it does not see, what it does not
live, it will not know. What the former age has epitomized into a
formula or rule for manipular convenience, it will lose all the good
of verifying for itself, by means of the wall of that rule.
Somewhere, sometime, it will demand and find compensation for that
loss by doing the work itself. Ferguson discovered many things in
astronomy which had long been known. The better for him.

History must be this or it is nothing. Every law which the
state enacts indicates a fact in human nature; that is all. We must
in ourselves see the necessary reason of every fact, -- see how it
could and must be. So stand before every public and private work;
before an oration of Burke, before a victory of Napoleon, before a
martyrdom of Sir Thomas More, of Sidney, of Marmaduke Robinson,
before a French Reign of Terror, and a Salem hanging of witches,
before a fanatic Revival, and the Animal Magnetism in Paris, or in
Providence. We assume that we under like influence should be alike
affected, and should achieve the like; and we aim to master
intellectually the steps, and reach the same height or the same
degradation, that our fellow, our proxy, has done.

All inquiry into antiquity, -- all curiosity respecting the
Pyramids, the excavated cities, Stonehenge, the Ohio Circles, Mexico,
Memphis, -- is the desire to do away this wild, savage, and
preposterous There or Then, and introduce in its place the Here and
the Now. Belzoni digs and measures in the mummy-pits and pyramids of
Thebes, until he can see the end of the difference between the
monstrous work and himself. When he has satisfied himself, in
general and in detail, that it was made by such a person as he, so
armed and so motived, and to ends to which he himself should also
have worked, the problem is solved; his thought lives along the whole
line of temples and sphinxes and catacombs, passes through them all
with satisfaction, and they live again to the mind, or are _now_.

A Gothic cathedral affirms that it was done by us, and not done
by us. Surely it was by man, but we find it not in our man. But we
apply ourselves to the history of its production. We put ourselves
into the place and state of the builder. We remember the
forest-dwellers, the first temples, the adherence to the first type,
and the decoration of it as the wealth of the nation increased; the
value which is given to wood by carving led to the carving over the
whole mountain of stone of a cathedral. When we have gone through
this process, and added thereto the Catholic Church, its cross, its
music, its processions, its Saints' days and image-worship, we have,
as it were, been the man that made the minster; we have seen how it
could and must be. We have the sufficient reason.

The difference between men is in their principle of
association. Some men classify objects by color and size and other
accidents of appearance; others by intrinsic likeness, or by the
relation of cause and effect. The progress of the intellect is to
the clearer vision of causes, which neglects surface differences. To
the poet, to the philosopher, to the saint, all things are friendly
and sacred, all events profitable, all days holy, all men divine.
For the eye is fastened on the life, and slights the circumstance.
Every chemical substance, every plant, every animal in its growth,
teaches the unity of cause, the variety of appearance.

Upborne and surrounded as we are by this all-creating nature,
soft and fluid as a cloud or the air, why should we be such hard
pedants, and magnify a few forms? Why should we make account of
time, or of magnitude, or of figure? The soul knows them not, and
genius, obeying its law, knows how to play with them as a young child
plays with graybeards and in churches. Genius studies the causal
thought, and, far back in the womb of things, sees the rays parting
from one orb, that diverge ere they fall by infinite diameters.
Genius watches the monad through all his masks as he performs the
metempsychosis of nature. Genius detects through the fly, through
the caterpillar, through the grub, through the egg, the constant
individual; through countless individuals, the fixed species; through
many species, the genus; through all genera, the steadfast type;
through all the kingdoms of organized life, the eternal unity.
Nature is a mutable cloud, which is always and never the same. She
casts the same thought into troops of forms, as a poet makes twenty
fables with one moral. Through the bruteness and toughness of
matter, a subtle spirit bends all things to its own will. The
adamant streams into soft but precise form before it, and, whilst I
look at it, its outline and texture are changed again. Nothing is so
fleeting as form; yet never does it quite deny itself. In man we
still trace the remains or hints of all that we esteem badges of
servitude in the lower races; yet in him they enhance his nobleness
and grace; as Io, in Aeschylus, transformed to a cow, offends the
imagination; but how changed, when as Isis in Egypt she meets
Osiris-Jove, a beautiful woman, with nothing of the metamorphosis
left but the lunar horns as the splendid ornament of her brows!

The identity of history is equally intrinsic, the diversity
equally obvious. There is at the surface infinite variety of things;
at the centre there is simplicity of cause. How many are the acts of
one man in which we recognize the same character! Observe the
sources of our information in respect to the Greek genius. We have
the _civil history_ of that people, as Herodotus, Thucydides,
Xenophon, and Plutarch have given it; a very sufficient account of
what manner of persons they were, and what they did. We have the
same national mind expressed for us again in their _literature_, in
epic and lyric poems, drama, and philosophy; a very complete form.
Then we have it once more in their _architecture_, a beauty as of
temperance itself, limited to the straight line and the square, -- a
builded geometry. Then we have it once again in _sculpture_, the
"tongue on the balance of expression," a multitude of forms in the
utmost freedom of action, and never transgressing the ideal serenity;
like votaries performing some religious dance before the gods, and,
though in convulsive pain or mortal combat, never daring to break the
figure and decorum of their dance. Thus, of the genius of one
remarkable people, we have a fourfold representation: and to the
senses what more unlike than an ode of Pindar, a marble centaur, the
peristyle of the Parthenon, and the last actions of Phocion?

Every one must have observed faces and forms which, without any
resembling feature, make a like impression on the beholder. A
particular picture or copy of verses, if it do not awaken the same
train of images, will yet superinduce the same sentiment as some wild
mountain walk, although the resemblance is nowise obvious to the
senses, but is occult and out of the reach of the understanding.
Nature is an endless combination and repetition of a very few laws.
She hums the old well-known air through innumerable variations.

Nature is full of a sublime family likeness throughout her
works; and delights in startling us with resemblances in the most
unexpected quarters. I have seen the head of an old sachem of the
forest, which at once reminded the eye of a bald mountain summit, and
the furrows of the brow suggested the strata of the rock. There are
men whose manners have the same essential splendor as the simple and
awful sculpture on the friezes of the Parthenon, and the remains of
the earliest Greek art. And there are compositions of the same
strain to be found in the books of all ages. What is Guido's
Rospigliosi Aurora but a morning thought, as the horses in it are
only a morning cloud. If any one will but take pains to observe the
variety of actions to which he is equally inclined in certain moods
of mind, and those to which he is averse, he will see how deep is the
chain of affinity.

A painter told me that nobody could draw a tree without in some
sort becoming a tree; or draw a child by studying the outlines of its
form merely, -- but, by watching for a time his motions and plays,
the painter enters into his nature, and can then draw him at will in
every attitude. So Roos "entered into the inmost nature of a sheep."
I knew a draughtsman employed in a public survey, who found that he
could not sketch the rocks until their geological structure was first
explained to him. In a certain state of thought is the common origin
of very diverse works. It is the spirit and not the fact that is
identical. By a deeper apprehension, and not primarily by a painful
acquisition of many manual skills, the artist attains the power of
awakening other souls to a given activity.

It has been said, that "common souls pay with what they do;
nobler souls with that which they are." And why? Because a profound
nature awakens in us by its actions and words, by its very looks and
manners, the same power and beauty that a gallery of sculpture, or of
pictures, addresses.

Civil and natural history, the history of art and of
literature, must be explained from individual history, or must remain
words. There is nothing but is related to us, nothing that does not
interest us, -- kingdom, college, tree, horse, or iron shoe, the
roots of all things are in man. Santa Croce and the Dome of St.
Peter's are lame copies after a divine model. Strasburg Cathedral is
a material counterpart of the soul of Erwin of Steinbach. The true
poem is the poet's mind; the true ship is the ship-builder. In the
man, could we lay him open, we should see the reason for the last
flourish and tendril of his work; as every spine and tint in the
sea-shell preexist in the secreting organs of the fish. The whole of
heraldry and of chivalry is in courtesy. A man of fine manners shall
pronounce your name with all the ornament that titles of nobility
could ever add.

The trivial experience of every day is always verifying some
old prediction to us, and converting into things the words and signs
which we had heard and seen without heed. A lady, with whom I was
riding in the forest, said to me, that the woods always seemed to her
_to wait_, as if the genii who inhabit them suspended their deeds
until the wayfarer has passed onward: a thought which poetry has
celebrated in the dance of the fairies, which breaks off on the
approach of human feet. The man who has seen the rising moon break
out of the clouds at midnight has been present like an archangel at
the creation of light and of the world. I remember one summer day,
in the fields, my companion pointed out to me a broad cloud, which
might extend a quarter of a mile parallel to the horizon, quite
accurately in the form of a cherub as painted over churches, -- a
round block in the centre, which it was easy to animate with eyes and
mouth, supported on either side by wide-stretched symmetrical wings.
What appears once in the atmosphere may appear often, and it was
undoubtedly the archetype of that familiar ornament. I have seen in
the sky a chain of summer lightning which at once showed to me that
the Greeks drew from nature when they painted the thunderbolt in the
hand of Jove. I have seen a snow-drift along the sides of the stone
wall which obviously gave the idea of the common architectural scroll
to abut a tower.

By surrounding ourselves with the original circumstances, we
invent anew the orders and the ornaments of architecture, as we see
how each people merely decorated its primitive abodes. The Doric
temple preserves the semblance of the wooden cabin in which the
Dorian dwelt. The Chinese pagoda is plainly a Tartar tent. The
Indian and Egyptian temples still betray the mounds and subterranean
houses of their forefathers. "The custom of making houses and tombs
in the living rock," says Heeren, in his Researches on the
Ethiopians, "determined very naturally the principal character of the
Nubian Egyptian architecture to the colossal form which it assumed.
In these caverns, already prepared by nature, the eye was accustomed
to dwell on huge shapes and masses, so that, when art came to the
assistance of nature, it could not move on a small scale without
degrading itself. What would statues of the usual size, or neat
porches and wings, have been, associated with those gigantic halls
before which only Colossi could sit as watchmen, or lean on the
pillars of the interior?"

The Gothic church plainly originated in a rude adaptation of
the forest trees with all their boughs to a festal or solemn arcade,
as the bands about the cleft pillars still indicate the green withes
that tied them. No one can walk in a road cut through pine woods,
without being struck with the architectural appearance of the grove,
especially in winter, when the bareness of all other trees shows the
low arch of the Saxons. In the woods in a winter afternoon one will
see as readily the origin of the stained glass window, with which the
Gothic cathedrals are adorned, in the colors of the western sky seen
through the bare and crossing branches of the forest. Nor can any
lover of nature enter the old piles of Oxford and the English
cathedrals, without feeling that the forest overpowered the mind of
the builder, and that his chisel, his saw, and plane still reproduced
its ferns, its spikes of flowers, its locust, elm, oak, pine, fir,
and spruce.

The Gothic cathedral is a blossoming in stone subdued by the
insatiable demand of harmony in man. The mountain of granite blooms
into an eternal flower, with the lightness and delicate finish, as
well as the aerial proportions and perspective, of vegetable beauty.

In like manner, all public facts are to be individualized, all
private facts are to be generalized. Then at once History becomes
fluid and true, and Biography deep and sublime. As the Persian
imitated in the slender shafts and capitals of his architecture the
stem and flower of the lotus and palm, so the Persian court in its
magnificent era never gave over the nomadism of its barbarous tribes,
but travelled from Ecbatana, where the spring was spent, to Susa in
summer, and to Babylon for the winter.

In the early history of Asia and Africa, Nomadism and
Agriculture are the two antagonist facts. The geography of Asia and
of Africa necessitated a nomadic life. But the nomads were the
terror of all those whom the soil, or the advantages of a market, had
induced to build towns. Agriculture, therefore, was a religious
injunction, because of the perils of the state from nomadism. And in
these late and civil countries of England and America, these
propensities still fight out the old battle in the nation and in the
individual. The nomads of Africa were constrained to wander by the
attacks of the gad-fly, which drives the cattle mad, and so compels
the tribe to emigrate in the rainy season, and to drive off the
cattle to the higher sandy regions. The nomads of Asia follow the
pasturage from month to month. In America and Europe, the nomadism
is of trade and curiosity; a progress, certainly, from the gad-fly of
Astaboras to the Anglo and Italo-mania of Boston Bay. Sacred cities,
to which a periodical religious pilgrimage was enjoined, or stringent
laws and customs, tending to invigorate the national bond, were the
check on the old rovers; and the cumulative values of long residence
are the restraints on the itineracy of the present day. The
antagonism of the two tendencies is not less active in individuals,
as the love of adventure or the love of repose happens to
predominate. A man of rude health and flowing spirits has the
faculty of rapid domestication, lives in his wagon, and roams through
all latitudes as easily as a Calmuc. At sea, or in the forest, or in
the snow, he sleeps as warm, dines with as good appetite, and
associates as happily, as beside his own chimneys. Or perhaps his
facility is deeper seated, in the increased range of his faculties of
observation, which yield him points of interest wherever fresh
objects meet his eyes. The pastoral nations were needy and hungry to
desperation; and this intellectual nomadism, in its excess, bankrupts
the mind, through the dissipation of power on a miscellany of
objects. The home-keeping wit, on the other hand, is that continence
or content which finds all the elements of life in its own soil; and
which has its own perils of monotony and deterioration, if not
stimulated by foreign infusions.

Every thing the individual sees without him corresponds to his
states of mind, and every thing is in turn intelligible to him, as
his onward thinking leads him into the truth to which that fact or
series belongs.

The primeval world, -- the Fore-World, as the Germans say, -- I
can dive to it in myself as well as grope for it with researching
fingers in catacombs, libraries, and the broken reliefs and torsos of
ruined villas.

What is the foundation of that interest all men feel in Greek
history, letters, art, and poetry, in all its periods, from the
Heroic or Homeric age down to the domestic life of the Athenians and
Spartans, four or five centuries later? What but this, that every
man passes personally through a Grecian period. The Grecian state is
the era of the bodily nature, the perfection of the senses, -- of the
spiritual nature unfolded in strict unity with the body. In it
existed those human forms which supplied the sculptor with his models
of Hercules, Ph;oebus, and Jove; not like the forms abounding in the
streets of modern cities, wherein the face is a confused blur of
features, but composed of incorrupt, sharply defined, and symmetrical
features, whose eye-sockets are so formed that it would be impossible
for such eyes to squint, and take furtive glances on this side and on
that, but they must turn the whole head. The manners of that period
are plain and fierce. The reverence exhibited is for personal
qualities, courage, address, self-command, justice, strength,
swiftness, a loud voice, a broad chest. Luxury and elegance are not
known. A sparse population and want make every man his own valet,
cook, butcher, and soldier, and the habit of supplying his own needs
educates the body to wonderful performances. Such are the Agamemnon
and Diomed of Homer, and not far different is the picture Xenophon
gives of himself and his compatriots in the Retreat of the Ten
Thousand. "After the army had crossed the river Teleboas in Armenia,
there fell much snow, and the troops lay miserably on the ground
covered with it. But Xenophon arose naked, and, taking an axe, began
to split wood; whereupon others rose and did the like." Throughout
his army exists a boundless liberty of speech. They quarrel for
plunder, they wrangle with the generals on each new order, and
Xenophon is as sharp-tongued as any, and sharper-tongued than most,
and so gives as good as he gets. Who does not see that this is a
gang of great boys, with such a code of honor and such lax discipline
as great boys have?

The costly charm of the ancient tragedy, and indeed of all the
old literature, is, that the persons speak simply, -- speak as
persons who have great good sense without knowing it, before yet the
reflective habit has become the predominant habit of the mind. Our
admiration of the antique is not admiration of the old, but of the
natural. The Greeks are not reflective, but perfect in their senses
and in their health, with the finest physical organization in the
world. Adults acted with the simplicity and grace of children. They
made vases, tragedies, and statues, such as healthy senses
should,---- that is, in good taste. Such things have continued to be
made in all ages, and are now, wherever a healthy physique exists;
but, as a class, from their superior organization, they have
surpassed all. They combine the energy of manhood with the engaging
unconsciousness of childhood. The attraction of these manners is
that they belong to man, and are known to every man in virtue of his
being once a child; besides that there are always individuals who
retain these characteristics. A person of childlike genius and
inborn energy is still a Greek, and revives our love of the Muse of
Hellas. I admire the love of nature in the Philoctetes. In reading
those fine apostrophes to sleep, to the stars, rocks, mountains, and
waves, I feel time passing away as an ebbing sea. I feel the
eternity of man, the identity of his thought. The Greek had, it
seems, the same fellow-beings as I. The sun and moon, water and
fire, met his heart precisely as they meet mine. Then the vaunted
distinction between Greek and English, between Classic and Romantic
schools, seems superficial and pedantic. When a thought of Plato
becomes a thought to me, -- when a truth that fired the soul of
Pindar fires mine, time is no more. When I feel that we two meet in
a perception, that our two souls are tinged with the same hue, and
do, as it were, run into one, why should I measure degrees of
latitude, why should I count Egyptian years?

The student interprets the age of chivalry by his own age of
chivalry, and the days of maritime adventure and circumnavigation by
quite parallel miniature experiences of his own. To the sacred
history of the world, he has the same key. When the voice of a
prophet out of the deeps of antiquity merely echoes to him a
sentiment of his infancy, a prayer of his youth, he then pierces to
the truth through all the confusion of tradition and the caricature
of institutions.

Rare, extravagant spirits come by us at intervals, who disclose
to us new facts in nature. I see that men of God have, from time to
time, walked among men and made their commission felt in the heart
and soul of the commonest hearer. Hence, evidently, the tripod, the
priest, the priestess inspired by the divine afflatus.

Jesus astonishes and overpowers sensual people. They cannot
unite him to history, or reconcile him with themselves. As they come
to revere their intuitions and aspire to live holily, their own piety
explains every fact, every word.


How easily these old worships of Moses, of Zoroaster, of Menu,
of Socrates, domesticate themselves in the mind. I cannot find any
antiquity in them. They are mine as much as theirs.

I have seen the first monks and anchorets without crossing seas
or centuries. More than once some individual has appeared to me with
such negligence of labor and such commanding contemplation, a haughty
beneficiary, begging in the name of God, as made good to the
nineteenth century Simeon the Stylite, the Thebais, and the first
Capuchins.

The priestcraft of the East and West, of the Magian, Brahmin,
Druid, and Inca, is expounded in the individual's private life. The
cramping influence of a hard formalist on a young child in repressing
his spirits and courage, paralyzing the understanding, and that
without producing indignation, but only fear and obedience, and even
much sympathy with the tyranny, -- is a familiar fact explained to
the child when he becomes a man, only by seeing that the oppressor of
his youth is himself a child tyrannized over by those names and words
and forms, of whose influence he was merely the organ to the youth.
The fact teaches him how Belus was worshipped, and how the Pyramids
were built, better than the discovery by Champollion of the names of
all the workmen and the cost of every tile. He finds Assyria and the
Mounds of Cholula at his door, and himself has laid the courses.

Again, in that protest which each considerate person makes
against the superstition of his times, he repeats step for step the
part of old reformers, and in the search after truth finds like them
new perils to virtue. He learns again what moral vigor is needed to
supply the girdle of a superstition. A great licentiousness treads
on the heels of a reformation. How many times in the history of the
world has the Luther of the day had to lament the decay of piety in
his own household! "Doctor," said his wife to Martin Luther, one
day, "how is it that, whilst subject to papacy, we prayed so often
and with such fervor, whilst now we pray with the utmost coldness and
very seldom?"

The advancing man discovers how deep a property he has in
literature, -- in all fable as well as in all history. He finds that
the poet was no odd fellow who described strange and impossible
situations, but that universal man wrote by his pen a confession true
for one and true for all. His own secret biography he finds in lines
wonderfully intelligible to him, dotted down before he was born. One
after another he comes up in his private adventures with every fable
of Aesop, of Homer, of Hafiz, of Ariosto, of Chaucer, of Scott, and
verifies them with his own head and hands.

The beautiful fables of the Greeks, being proper creations of
the imagination and not of the fancy, are universal verities. What a
range of meanings and what perpetual pertinence has the story of
Prometheus! Beside its primary value as the first chapter of the
history of Europe, (the mythology thinly veiling authentic facts, the
invention of the mechanic arts, and the migration of colonies,) it
gives the history of religion with some closeness to the faith of
later ages. Prometheus is the Jesus of the old mythology. He is the
friend of man; stands between the unjust "justice" of the Eternal
Father and the race of mortals, and readily suffers all things on
their account. But where it departs from the Calvinistic
Christianity, and exhibits him as the defier of Jove, it represents a
state of mind which readily appears wherever the doctrine of Theism
is taught in a crude, objective form, and which seems the
self-defence of man against this untruth, namely, a discontent with
the believed fact that a God exists, and a feeling that the
obligation of reverence is onerous. It would steal, if it could, the
fire of the Creator, and live apart from him, and independent of him.
The Prometheus Vinctus is the romance of skepticism. Not less true
to all time are the details of that stately apologue. Apollo kept
the flocks of Admetus, said the poets. When the gods come among men,
they are not known. Jesus was not; Socrates and Shakspeare were not.
Antaeus was suffocated by the gripe of Hercules, but every time he
touched his mother earth, his strength was renewed. Man is the
broken giant, and, in all his weakness, both his body and his mind
are invigorated by habits of conversation with nature. The power of
music, the power of poetry to unfix, and, as it were, clap wings to
solid nature, interprets the riddle of Orpheus. The philosophical
perception of identity through endless mutations of form makes him
know the Proteus. What else am I who laughed or wept yesterday, who
slept last night like a corpse, and this morning stood and ran? And
what see I on any side but the transmigrations of Proteus? I can
symbolize my thought by using the name of any creature, of any fact,
because every creature is man agent or patient. Tantalus is but a
name for you and me. Tantalus means the impossibility of drinking
the waters of thought which are always gleaming and waving within
sight of the soul. The transmigration of souls is no fable. I would
it were; but men and women are only half human. Every animal of the
barn-yard, the field, and the forest, of the earth and of the waters
that are under the earth, has contrived to get a footing and to leave
the print of its features and form in some one or other of these
upright, heaven-facing speakers. Ah! brother, stop the ebb of thy
soul, -- ebbing downward into the forms into whose habits thou hast
now for many years slid. As near and proper to us is also that old
fable of the Sphinx, who was said to sit in the road-side and put
riddles to every passenger. If the man could not answer, she
swallowed him alive. If he could solve the riddle, the Sphinx was
slain. What is our life but an endless flight of winged facts or
events! In splendid variety these changes come, all putting
questions to the human spirit. Those men who cannot answer by a
superior wisdom these facts or questions of time, serve them. Facts
encumber them, tyrannize over them, and make the men of routine the
men of _sense_, in whom a literal obedience to facts has extinguished
every spark of that light by which man is truly man. But if the man
is true to his better instincts or sentiments, and refuses the
dominion of facts, as one that comes of a higher race, remains fast
by the soul and sees the principle, then the facts fall aptly and
supple into their places; they know their master, and the meanest of
them glorifies him.

See in Goethe's Helena the same desire that every word should
be a thing. These figures, he would say, these Chirons, Griffins,
Phorkyas, Helen, and Leda, are somewhat, and do exert a specific
influence on the mind. So far then are they eternal entities, as
real to-day as in the first Olympiad. Much revolving them, he writes
out freely his humor, and gives them body tohis own imagination. And
although that poem be as vague and fantastic as a dream, yet is it
much more attractive than the more regular dramatic pieces of the
same author, for the reason that it operates a wonderful relief to
the mind from the routine of customary images, -- awakens the
reader's invention and fancy by the wild freedom of the design, and
by the unceasing succession of brisk shocks of surprise.

The universal nature, too strong for the petty nature of the
bard, sits on his neck and writes through his hand; so that when he
seems to vent a mere caprice and wild romance, the issue is an exact
allegory. Hence Plato said that "poets utter great and wise things
which they do not themselves understand." All the fictions of the
Middle Age explain themselves as a masked or frolic expression of
that which in grave earnest the mind of that period toiled to
achieve. Magic, and all that is ascribed to it, is a deep
presentiment of the powers of science. The shoes of swiftness, the
sword of sharpness, the power of subduing the elements, of using the
secret virtues of minerals, of understanding the voices of birds, are
the obscure efforts of the mind in a right direction. The
preternatural prowess of the hero, the gift of perpetual youth, and
the like, are alike the endeavour of the human spirit "to bend the
shows of things to the desires of the mind."

In Perceforest and Amadis de Gaul, a garland and a rose bloom
on the head of her who is faithful, and fade on the brow of the
inconstant. In the story of the Boy and the Mantle, even a mature
reader may be surprised with a glow of virtuous pleasure at the
triumph of the gentle Genelas; and, indeed, all the postulates of
elfin annals, -- that the fairies do not like to be named; that their
gifts are capricious and not to be trusted; that who seeks a treasure
must not speak; and the like, -- I find true in Concord, however they
might be in Cornwall or Bretagne.

Is it otherwise in the newest romance? I read the Bride of
Lammermoor. Sir William Ashton is a mask for a vulgar temptation,
Ravenswood Castle a fine name for proud poverty, and the foreign
mission of state only a Bunyan disguise for honest industry. We may
all shoot a wild bull that would toss the good and beautiful, by
fighting down the unjust and sensual. Lucy Ashton is another name
for fidelity, which is always beautiful and always liable to calamity
in this world.
-----------

But along with the civil and metaphysical history of man,
another history goes daily forward, -- that of the external world, --
in which he is not less strictly implicated. He is the compend of
time; he is also the correlative of nature. His power consists in
the multitude of his affinities, in the fact that his life is
intertwined with the whole chain of organic and inorganic being. In
old Rome the public roads beginning at the Forum proceeded north,
south, east, west, to the centre of every province of the empire,
making each market-town of Persia, Spain, and Britain pervious to the
soldiers of the capital: so out of the human heart go, as it were,
highways to the heart of every object in nature, to reduce it under
the dominion of man. A man is a bundle of relations, a knot of
roots, whose flower and fruitage is the world. His faculties refer
to natures out of him, and predict the world he is to inhabit, as the
fins of the fish foreshow that water exists, or the wings of an eagle
in the egg presuppose air. He cannot live without a world. Put
Napoleon in an island prison, let his faculties find no men to act
on, no Alps to climb, no stake to play for, and he would beat the air
and appear stupid. Transport him to large countries, dense
population, complex interests, and antagonist power, and you shall
see that the man Napoleon, bounded, that is, by such a profile and
outline, is not the virtual Napoleon. This is but Talbot's shadow;

"His substance is not here:
For what you see is but the smallest part
And least proportion of humanity;
But were the whole frame here,
It is of such a spacious, lofty pitch,
Your roof were not sufficient to contain it."
_Henry VI._

Columbus needs a planet to shape his course upon. Newton and
Laplace need myriads of ages and thick-strewn celestial areas. One
may say a gravitating solar system is already prophesied in the
nature of Newton's mind. Not less does the brain of Davy or of
Gay-Lussac, from childhood exploring the affinities and repulsions of
particles, anticipate the laws of organization. Does not the eye of
the human embryo predict the light? the ear of Handel predict the
witchcraft of harmonic sound? Do not the constructive fingers of
Watt, Fulton, Whittemore, Arkwright, predict the fusible, hard, and
temperable texture of metals, the properties of stone, water, and
wood? Do not the lovely attributes of the maiden child predict the
refinements and decorations of civil society? Here also we are
reminded of the action of man on man. A mind might ponder its
thought for ages, and not gain so much self-knowledge as the passion
of love shall teach it in a day. Who knows himself before he has
been thrilled with indignation at an outrage, or has heard an
eloquent tongue, or has shared the throb of thousands in a national
exultation or alarm? No man can antedate his experience, or guess
what faculty or feeling a new object shall unlock, any more than he
can draw to-day the face of a person whom he shall see to-morrow for
the first time.

I will not now go behind the general statement to explore the
reason of this correspondency. Let it suffice that in the light of
these two facts, namely, that the mind is One, and that nature is its
correlative, history is to be read and written.

Thus in all ways does the soul concentrate and reproduce its
treasures for each pupil. He, too, shall pass through the whole
cycle of experience. He shall collect into a focus the rays of
nature. History no longer shall be a dull book. It shall walk
incarnate in every just and wise man. You shall not tell me by
languages and titles a catalogue of the volumes you have read. You
shall make me feel what periods you have lived. A man shall be the
Temple of Fame. He shall walk, as the poets have described that
goddess, in a robe painted all over with wonderful events and
experiences; -- his own form and features by their exalted
intelligence shall be that variegated vest. I shall find in him the
Foreworld; in his childhood the Age of Gold; the Apples of Knowledge;
the Argonautic Expedition; the calling of Abraham; the building of
the Temple; the Advent of Christ; Dark Ages; the Revival of Letters;
the Reformation; the discovery of new lands; the opening of new
sciences, and new regions in man. He shall be the priest of Pan, and
bring with him into humble cottages the blessing of the morning stars
and all the recorded benefits of heaven and earth.

Is there somewhat overweening in this claim? Then I reject all
I have written, for what is the use of pretending to know what we
know not? But it is the fault of our rhetoric that we cannot
strongly state one fact without seeming to belie some other. I hold
our actual knowledge very cheap. Hear the rats in the wall, see the
lizard on the fence, the fungus under foot, the lichen on the log.
What do I know sympathetically, morally, of either of these worlds of
life? As old as the Caucasian man, -- perhaps older, -- these
creatures have kept their counsel beside him, and there is no record
of any word or sign that has passed from one to the other. What
connection do the books show between the fifty or sixty chemical
elements, and the historical eras? Nay, what does history yet record
of the metaphysical annals of man? What light does it shed on those
mysteries which we hide under the names Death and Immortality? Yet
every history should be written in a wisdom which divined the range
of our affinities and looked at facts as symbols. I am ashamed to
see what a shallow village tale our so-called History is. How many
times we must say Rome, and Paris, and Constantinople! What does
Rome know of rat and lizard? What are Olympiads and Consulates to
these neighbouring systems of being? Nay, what food or experience or
succour have they for the Esquimaux seal-hunter, for the Kanaka in
his canoe, for the fisherman, the stevedore, the porter?

Broader and deeper we must write our annals, -- from an ethical
reformation, from an influx of the ever new, ever sanative
conscience, -- if we would trulier express our central and
wide-related nature, instead of this old chronology of selfishness
and pride to which we have too long lent our eyes. Already that day
exists for us, shines in on us at unawares, but the path of science
and of letters is not the way into nature. The idiot, the Indian,
the child, and unschooled farmer's boy, stand nearer to the light by
which nature is to be read, than the dissector or the antiquary.