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the same state of mind wherein the artist was when he made
it. That which we do not believe, we cannot adequately say,
though we may repeat the words never so often. It was this
conviction which Swedenborg expressed, when he described a
group of persons in the spiritual world endeavoring in vain to
articulate a proposition which they did not believe.; but they
could not, though they twisted and folded their lips even to
indignation.
A man passes for that he is worth. Very idle is all curi-
osity concerning other people's estimate of us, and all fear of
remaining unknown is not less so. If a man know that he can
do anything, — that he can do it better than any one else, – he
has a pledge of the acknowledgment of that fact by all persons.
The world is full of judgment-days, and into every assembly
that a man enters, in every action he attempts, he is gauged
and stamped. In every troop of boys that whoop and run in
each yard and square, a new-comer is as well and accurately
weighed in the course of a few days, and stamped with his
right number, as if he had undergone a formal trial of his
strength, speed, and temper. A stranger comes from a dis-
tant school, with better dress, with trinkets in his pockets,
with airs and pretensions: an older boy says to himself, ‘It’s
of no use; we shall find him out to-morrow.” “What has he
done?’ is the divine question which searches men, and trans-
pierces every false reputation. A fop may sit in any chair of
the world, nor be distinguished for his hour from Homer and

Washington ; but there need never be any doubt concerning

the respective ability of human beings. Pretension may sit
still, but cannot act. Pretension never feigned an act of real
greatness. Pretension never wrote an Iliad, nor drove back
Xerxes, nor Christianized the world, nor abolished slavery.
As much virtue as there is, so much appears; as much
goodness as there is, so much reverence it commands. All the
devils respect virtue. The high, the generous, the self-devoted
sect will always instruct and command mankind. Never was
a sincere word utterly lost. Never a magnanimity fell to the
ground, but there is some heart to greet and accept it unex-
pectedly. A man passes for that he is worth. What he is
engraves itself on his face, on his form, on his fortunes, in
letters of light. Concealment avails him nothing; boast-
ing nothing. There is confession in the glances of our
eyes; in our smiles; in salutations; and the grasp of hands.
His sin bedaubs him, mars all his good impression. Men

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know not why they do not trust him ; but they do not trust him. His vice glasses his eye, cuts lines of mean expression in his cheek, pinches the nose, sets the mark of the beast on the back of the head, and writes O fool | fool! on the forehead of a king. If you would not be known to do anything, never do it. A man may play the fool in the drifts of a desert, but every grain of sand shall seem to see. He may be a solitary eater, but he cannot keep his foolish counsel. A broken complexion, a swinish look, ungenerous acts, and the want of due knowledge, – all blab. Can'a cook, a Chiffinch, an Iachimo be mistaken for Zeno or Paul ? Confucius exclaimed: “How can a man be concealed ! How can a man be concealed !” On the other hand, the hero fears not, that, if he withhold the avowal of a just and brave act, it will go unwitnessed and unloved. One knows it, — himself, - and is pledged by it to sweetness of peace, and to nobleness of aim, which will prove in the end a better proclamation of it than the relating of the incident. Virtue is the adherence in action to the nature of things, and the nature of things makes it prevalent. It consists in a perpetual substitution of being for seeming, and with sublime propriety God is described as saying, I AM. The lesson which these observations convey is, Be, and not seem. Let us acquiesce. Let us take our bloated nothingness out of the path of the divine circuits. Let us unlearn our wisdom of the world. Let us lie low in the Lord's power, and learn that truth alone makes rich and great. If you "visit your friend, why need you apologize for not having visited him, and waste his time and deface your own act Wisit him now. Let him feel that the highest love has come to see him, in thee, its lowest organ. Or why need you torment yourself and friend by secret self-reproaches that you have not assisted him or complimented him with gifts and salutations heretofore ? Be a gift and a benediction. Shine with real light, and not with the borrowed reflection of gifts. Common men are apologies for men; they bow the head, excuse themselves with prolix reasons, and accumulate appearances, because the substance is not. We are full of these superstitions of sense, the worship of magnitude. We call the poet inactive, because he is not a president, a merchant, or a porter. We adore an institution, and do not see that it is founded on a thought which we have. But real action is in silent moments. The epochs of our life are not in the visible facts of our choice of a calling, our marriage, our acquisition of an office, and the like, but in a silent thought by the wayside as we walk; in a thought which revises our entire manner of life, and says, “Thus hast thou done, but it were better thus.’ And all our after years, like menials, serve and wait on this, and, according to their ability, execute its will. This revisal or correction is a constant force, which, as a tendency, reaches through our lifetime. The object of the man, the aim of these moments, is to make day

light shine through him, to suffer the law to traverse his whole.

being without obstruction, so that, on what point soever of his doing your eye falls, it shall report truly of his character, whether it be his diet, his house, his religious forms, his society, his mirth, his vote, his opposition. Now he is not homogeneous, but heterogeneous, and the ray does not traverse ; there are no thorough lights; but the eye of the beholder is puzzled, detecting many unlike tendencies, and a life not yet at one. Why should we make it a point with our false modesty to disparage that man we are, and that form of being assigned to us! A good man is contented. I love and honor Epaminondas, but I do not wish to be Epaminondas. I hold it more just to love the world of this hour, than the world of his hour. Nor can you, if I am true, excite me to the least uneasiness by saying, “He acted, and thou sittest still.’ I see action to be good, when the need is, and sitting still to be also good. Epaminondas, if he was the man I take him for, would have sat still with joy add peace, if his lot had been mine: Heaven is large, and affords space for all modes of love and fortitude. Why should we be busybodies and superserviceable? Action and inaction are alike to the true. One piece of the tree is cut for a weathercock, and one for the sleeper of a bridge ; the virtue of the wood is apparent in both. I desire not to disgrace the soul. The fact that I am here certainly shows me that the soul had need of an organ here. Shall I not assume the post? Shall I skulk and dodge and duck with my unseasonable apologies and vain modesty, and imagine my being here impertinent less pertinent than Epaminondas or Homer being there and that the soul did not know its own needs | Besides, without any reasoning on the matter, I have no discontent. The good soul nourishes me, and unlocks new magazines of power and enjoyment to me every day. I will not meanly decline the immensity of

good, because I have heard that it has come to others in another shape. Besides, why should we be cowed by the name of Action ? 'T is a trick of the senses, – no more. We know that the ancestor of every action is a thought. The poor mind does not seem to itself to be anything, unless it have an outside badge, —some Gentoo diet, or Quaker coat, or Calvinistic prayermeeting, or philanthropic society, or a great donation, or a high office, or, any how, some wild contrasting action to testify that it is somewhat. The rich mind lies in the sun and sleeps, and is Nature. To think is to act. Let us, if we must have great actions, make our own so. All action is of an infinite elasticity, and the least admits of being inflated with the celestial air until it eclipses the sun and moon. Let us seek one peace by fidelity. Let me heed my duties. Why need I go gadding into the scenes and philosophy of Greek and Italian history, before I have justified myself to my benefactors! How dare I read Washington's campaigns, when I have not answered the letters of my own correspondents? Is not that a just objection to much of our reading It is a pusillanimous desertion of our work to gaze after our neighbors. It is peeping. Byron says of Jack Bunt1119, - ex “He knew not what to say, and so he swore.” I may say it of our preposterous use of books, - He knew not what to do, and so he read. I can think of nothing to fill my time with, and I find the Life of Brant. It is a very extravagant compliment to pay to Brant, or to General Schuyler, or to General Washington. My time should be as good as - their time, – my facts, my net of relations, as good as theirs, or either of theirs. Rather let me do my work so well that other idlers, if they choose, may compare my texture with the texture of these and find it identical with the best. This over-estimate of the possibilities of Paul and Pericles, this under-estimate of our own, comes from a neglect of the fact of an identical nature. Bonaparte knew but one merit, and rewarded in one and the same way the good soldier, the good astronomer, the good poet, the good player. The poet uses the names of Caesar, of Tamerlane, of Bonduca, of Belisarius; the painter uses the conventional story of the Virgin Mary, of Paul, of Peter. He does not, therefore, defer to the nature of these accidental men, of these stock heroes. If the poet write a true drama, then he is Caesar, and not the player of Caesar; then the selfsame strain of thought, emotion as pure, wit as subtle, motions as swift, mounting, extravagant, and a heart as great, self-sufficing, dauntless, which on the waves of its love and hope can uplift all that is reckoned solid and precious in the world, - palaces, gardens, money, navies, kingdoms, – marking its own incomparable worth by the slight it casts on these gauds of men, – these all are his, and by the power of these he rouses the nations. Let a man believe in God, and not in names and places and persons. Let the great soul incarnated in some woman's form, poor and sad and single, in some Dolly or Joan, go out to service, and sweep chambers and scour floors, and its effulgent daybeams cannot be muffled or hid, but to sweep and scour will instantly appear supreme and beautiful actions, the top and radiance of human life, and all people will get mops and brooms; until, lo! Suddenly the great soul has enshrined itself in some other form, and done some other deed, and that is now the flower and head of all living nature.

We are the photometers, we the irritable gold-leaf and tinfoil that measure the accumulations of the subtle element. We know the authentic effects of the true fire through every one of its million disguises.

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